The Discworld Tarot
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: NC "DEATH" AT chap. 15! The Tarot Pack is either a neat psychological tool, or it offers genuine portals to the world of The Other, or it's a good way for plausible bluffers like me to earn 20 quid a reading. Or it could be about Discworld characters...NOW WITH MINOR ARCANA! (building slowly but surely.)
1. The Fool

_**The Discworld Tarot…**_

_The first in an occasional series. Note this is Tarot – as known on Roundworld – and expressly not the Caroc of the Discworld. The reasons are simple. One, I know the Tarot better and there are only seventy-eight cards, the Major Arcana of twenty-two cards plus the four suits each of fourteen. According to the Terry Pratchett Wiki, the Caroc has its Major Arcanum plus eight suits each of fourteen cards. Life is too short. _

_So learn a little Tarot lore and hopefully enjoy the short explanatory stories/drabbles/one-shots or whatever. This is the one form of Fanfic I'm not greatly good at - keeping 'em short - and I think 2011 is the year of riding to the challenge. _

_**The Major Arcana:-**_

Key Zero () The Fool

_A Fool in tatterdemalion strides confidently out, his worldly wealth in the traditional tied bundle on the end of a stick which he nonchalantly rests on his shoulder. As he approaches a precipice, a cliff-face or an abyss, a small mongrel dog runs yapping at his heels, trying to warn him. _

_The interpretation covers the whole gamut from the everyday to the esoteric. It can be the carefree holiday feeling, or a weekend with no responsibilities, nothing to do, and all day to do it in. It can be a warning of trouble to come that you are not registering or denying; a reminder that there are friends there, both seen (the dog) and unseen; it can typify the pilgrim at the start of his journey to Seek Wisdom (for as every seeker after truth knows, it's never anywhere nearby or convenient, chance would be a fine thing!)_

"No, no, NO, you stupid bastard!" Gaspode wheezed, as he ran barking and shouting round the feet of Foul Ol'Ron (a place most sensible people and even the majority of dogs do not care to visit, as a rule.)

They were AWAYS like this when they'd been on the lethal cocktail called "Hedgehog's Revenge", Gaspode thought. A half-and-half mix of paraffin lamp oil and methylated spirits would kill most people and drive the rest blind.

But not the Crew. Most of them were sprawled insensate in the dank warren of cardboard boxes and packing crates under the Ankh Bridge that they called Home. Well, Ron called it "Clonkers!" and Arnold Sideways had temporarily lost the power of speech, and indeed sentience. Gaspode had kept a wary eye on Altogether Andrews, preparing to run like buggery if the meths helped Burke emerge as dominant personality. He'd been relieved it had been Lady Hermione who had taken control, and who had likened the foul brew to a "cheeky little Uberwaldean hock". Burke, however, would be the most likely candidate to emerge for the hangover, and Gaspode was bracing himself. But that would be tomorrow. Tomorrow could look after itself. _Now_ was…

"No, you dozy sod!" barked Gaspode, as a drunken Ron lurched towards the edge of the river walk. The river was low at this time of year and from the elevated walkway by the pier, there was a thirty-foot drop. A man could break a few bones falling onto the river from that height… a _dog_ could break a few bones, which was a more pressing concern.

As Ron, under the impression he was a concert singer on the music hall stage, pirouetted and tried to fit the words "Hand, millenium and shrimp!" to the tune of "Aunty Nellie Had A Fat Belly"1**(1), **a panting Gaspode saw him being buffeted to safety and away from the edge by something invisible to the eye. The thinking-brain-dog relaxed. His nose had tuned out for its own protection, so close to the river and the Crew, but he detected an outline in the nasal perception field. Of course. Ron's Smell was active again, keeping the Source safe from harm.

He made a quick decision.

"Well, you won't be needin' me, then. I'll just go back home and curl up for a kip!"

Satisfied Ron was in safe hands – or at least, a safe and sentient miasma – Gaspode turned and trotted off to the underneath of the Bridge. Who knows, there might even be a Dibbler sausage left from the afternoon's scavenging…

_Or it could just be Foul Ol'Ron and Gaspode the thinking-brain dog, which if it turns up in a reading means an aggressive beggar is shortly going to sting you for half a bar or else you get The Smell. Oh, and something for the little doggie too, sir…_

_

* * *

_

1 **(1) A cheery ditty about a lady who belatedly realises the growth in her stomach is due not so much to what went in through her mouth, as to, er, other factors…**


	2. The Magician

1 The Magician

_The Magician, garbed in the traditional robes of a magic-user, stands commandingly in front of an altar which bears runes and symbols of power. To hand are the signs of the four Elements: the Cup, the Pentacle, the Staff and the Sword. These are proof that the Magician has truly mastered, in turn, the powers and mysteries of Water, Earth, Fire and Air. He stands with one hand raised skyward and the other pointing at the earth, as if to channel and focus the magic inherent in the very earth and sky. _

_The card is about – skill rather than strength. Brains rather than brute force. Dexterity, ability, the power to hold an audience and mesmerise them, for good or ill. The card is about balance, about making oneself the fixed point in an ever-changing world. It could mean you're having a good day at work for once and chores and firmer difficulties become effortless. It could mean you're going to see an exceptionally good gig fronted by a charismatic performer (music, art, any skill taken to a level of excellence, is mandated here). Or it could mean you're about to manifest the subtler esoteric powers of the universe. Aleistar Crowley liked this card so much he incorporated three of 'em in his Thoth Tarot. _

"Come!" said Lord Vetinari.

"Professor Stibbons, sir." said Rufus Drumknott.

"Ah! The new Vice-Chancellor! Capital!" said Vetinari, as Drumknott slipped smoothly out and Ponder Stibbons walked uncertainly in, blinking in the light of the Oblong Office.

"You asked for me, sir?" Ponder said, and then his brain caught up with his ears. "There hasn't been a Vice-Chancellor for many years now, not since…"

"Since Vice-Chancellor Treatle was carried away with the romance and the reflected glory of the Sourceror, and paid the ultimate price?" Vetinari completed the sentence for him.

"In recent informal conversations with the Arch-Chancellor, we are both of a mind that the stability of the university, which by extension contributes a good deal to the security and well-being of the City, would be enhanced by the re-introduction of this post. Mustrum Ridcully is getting no younger. He agrees the university might benefit from younger men in senior positions."

Vetinari picked up a paper-knife from the desk, looked it at thoughtfully for a moment, and then started to oddly toss it into the air, catching it in the opposite hand.

"You first came to my attention when it became necessary to send a vehicle into space in such a manner that it returned safely to the Disc. I was quite impressed with you."

Vetinari picked up the inkwell from his desk and nonchalantly tossed it up. It arced high in the air and turned lazily at the top of its parabola, crossing paths with the knife on its way to the opposite hand.

"Mustrum and I were both of the mind that you are the ideal man for the position of Vice-Chancellor. A wizard second in the hierarchy only to the Arch-Chancellor. Unchallengedly so, as the former Dean is no longer part of the structure and the Bursar tends to inhabit different planets under different skies. And of course another effect of the time of the Sourceror was the demise and ending of the old Eight Orders of Wizardry."

Vetinari cast a speculative look at the ornamental truncheon on the desk.

"I see Commander Vimes has forgotten his badge of office yet again" he tutted. "Discussions with him can sometimes get _heated_ and he does tend to storm out as truculently as he dares. Pass that up to me, would you, Vice-chancellor?"

In a daze, Ponder picked up the wand of office and lobbed it underarm into the whirling arc of disparate objects. Vetinari's hands were starting to blur now.

"But sir, I'm not qualified!" Ponder objected. Vetinari shrugged. There was a brief self-righting wobble in the orbit of items around him.

"Who is?" he asked. "I myself ascended to the Patricianship at a relatively young age. Lord Snapcase had gone too far. He had… _overbalanced,_ some might say – when he ordered a thief called Boggis to eat his own nose. Popular sentiment took over and it was considered a cruel and unusual punishment. Rather than risk another Glorious Revolution, the Guild leaders opted to elect a young man to the post, thinking, no doubt, that his relative youth might be steered and controlled by older and wiser heads."

Vetinari smiled a nostalgic smile.

"Vice-Chancellor Stibbons, only one more item is required. Can I trouble you for a small fireball? About the size of a clenched fist should suffice. Thank you."

Ponder mumbled the words and pointed. A cricket-ball sized fireball flashed into existence and joined the objects being juggled. He was surprised it did not seem to be burning Vetinari's hands. Then again, the ink in the inkwell should have spilled by now, but there was a resolute absence of large black puddles on the carpet.

In reply to Ponder's unspoken question, the Patrician said

"You succeed by being the fulcrum. The balance point, the point of stability around which everything else mutates and changes. You remain the dictating tyranny while all else is in mutation. **(1) **If your point of balance is absolutely right, a man with the correct lever may move the whole world. And do so in such a way that he leaves others continually wondering how he does it."

The objects in flight suddenly changed directions, one by one. The inkwell landed on the desk, slopping but not spilling its contents. The baton and the paper knife landed beside it. The fireball flew off to the fireplace and was consumed. Then Vetinari was the Patrician again, leaning one hand on his desk for support and gravely studying Ponder's reactions.

"In esoteric lore, Vice-Chancellor, what was the significance of those four items?"

"The four classic Ephebian elements, sir. The inkwell for water; the knife for air; the wooden baton for earth; and the fireball for, well, fire. Ephebian magic stresses that the wizard keep all four in perfect balance and yet tread lightly on the earth."

"I discovered I could do this while on business in Klatch some years ago. I practice occasionally for recreation". Vetinari explained. "The hand and eye co-ordination involved has stood me in good stead ever since. It was very good practice for running a City."

He paused.

"Or a University." he added, nodding at Ponder. "I have every confidence in you, Vice-Chancellor. I'm sure you will be able to get the change in the Lore through Conclave which will allow Wizards to marry. There are a lot more younger wizards than there are older, after all. Especially those who see the skull-ring as a, er, _babe-magnet_"

"I understand, sir." Ponder said. He had a lot to gain personally if the Lore were liberalised – to allow wizards to marry and have normal marital relations, but expressly no more than seven children. Older wizards were against it. Younger men were all for it.

"My advice to you is to go round to the Guild of Fools – as regrettably, they now own the Conjuror's Guild – and get yourself on a juggling course. That redoubtable young lady of yours is very good at juggling. Well, juggling throwing knives, at least. She may well assist."**(2)**

"Yes, my Lord." Ponder said.

"Thank you, Vice-Chancellor."

* * *

**(1) **OK, this is an unsubtle reference to the Blue Öyster Cult's second album,_**Tyranny and Mutation. **_But the idea of the Magician goes with the themes of the LP!

**(2) **As has been pointed out to the author, he is presuming here that the reader knows his other fanfic. Those who only know the canon will not be aware that in the Pessimal continuation of the Discworld, Ponder Stibbons has been allowed a girlfriend who not only quite likes him, she is quite taken with him. In the best Pratchett tradition of somewhat ineffectual wimpy men attracting strong and otherwise self-sufficient women ( think Nijel and Conina) she is an Assassin. For a wizard who regularly tampers with the fabric of reality, faces down the Faculty, and deals with Mustrum Ridcully every day, he actually finds her interest in him to be quite relaxing. See _**Nature Studies**_ (originally _**The Urban Safari) **_, where Howondalandian natural scientist and Assassin Johanna Smith-Rhodes (herself a marginal Pratchett ciaracter) first meets wizard and technomancer Ponder Stibbons. Although the Disc only begins to move for them both (in this respect we have two very intelligent slow learners) in _**Il se pasait au nuit du Pere Porcher. **_(Which, by the way, is in English. It only got a French title because two central characters are Quirmians). And the Disc definitely moves for them both in **_Whys and Weres. _**I wanted to explore issues of wizardly celibacy and how appropriate it was for the new Ridcully-driven age. These are the tales.


	3. The High Priestess

2 The High Priestess (aka the Popess, the Lady Pope)

_She sits in splendour on a throne between two pillars, one light, one dark. Between the pillars is slung a curtain which obscures what lies behind. Her clothing is of rich blue and white and in some decks she wears the triple tiara of the Papacy. She has a richly inscrutable look on her face and may have the moon and stars at her feet. "Inscrutable" is one of the reasons why the esoteric Tarot associates her with the Hebrew letter "gimel" – which also means that most inscrutable beast of all, the __**camel.**__ Indeed, some decks actually import a camel into the card to make this association. Dressed in blue and white, wearing a crown, with moon and stars at her feet also gives her a specifically Christian interpretation. _

_There is also the legend that in the latter part of the tenth century, a woman masquerading as a man became first priest, then bishop, then cardinal and Prince of the Church, then finally Pope Joan... the Catholic Church denies this, of course._

_The range of meanings? A mysterious and occulty woman; witchcraft; getting involved with the feminine side of yourself, the anima; a magical initiation; a vision quest into a dark place; the mystic and occult side of the Middle East, especially Israel; a deepening of intuitive ability and a growing interest in the magic and mysterious world of the subconscious mind (she is partnered to the Magician in some Tarot schemes – he is the conscious rational mind). It can also depict a growing interest in conventional Judeo-Christian-Islamic religion, where the feminine side is buried and repressed under layers of patriarchy. She is a Psychopomp - she guards the portal to the Dreamworld. Only the flimsy veil strung between the two pillars seperates the sleeping world from the waking. At her decision, she may allow you past the portal and through the gateway behind her Throne to pass from Malkuth to Yesod and to what lies beyond. _

The Right Reverend Extremelia Mume sat in the otherwise empty Temple of Anoia and scowled to herself. She crossed her legs and looked out on her new Temple – a Cathedral, really – from the vantage point of the Bishop's throne behind the main altar. The Cathedral of Anoia was a relatively new building on God Street, and could comfortably hold six hundred seated and three hundred more standing. The Church motto being what it was – _IT COULD BE YOU! – _was reinforced everywhere, from the hassocks to the embroideries to the stained-glass window. It had struck a chord in Ankh-Morpork, after the Miracle, and she was assured of a full congregation every Octeday from among the optimistic and hopeful. Regular bingo games three times a week kept the Faithful, reinforced the message, and assured a small steady stream of happy winners with small, unspectacular, winnings. It was a good revenue stream for the Church, even after paying Gamblers' Guild tax.

She sighed and her frown eased. Being High Priestess, or Bishop, as the Assembly had insisted, wasn't a bad life. It was just that nobody had ever told her, in those long-ago days when the Temple of Anoia had been a single poky room over a bookies in Cable Street, when she'd had to hold down two part-time jobs pulling pints, and acting as Paddy**(1)** the bookie's cashier downstairs.

Nobody had ever said to the younger Extremelia that in the future, when satellite Temples of Anoia were opening in Pseudopolis and Quirm and the Stos, and she would be elected its Bishop, that the further away you got from the ordinary priesthood, the more your life started to revolve around paperwork and administration and finance and day-to-day personnel management of junior priestesses and Church employees.

Well, Hughnon Ridcully had said it to her – and he'd been incredibly supportive at those acrimonious meetings of the Council of Churches, Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks, where the City's (mainly male) religious spokespeople had raised the old endless prejudices against women being priests, let alone High Priests or Bishops.

"Pack it in, you fellows!" he had boomed across a crowded Small Gods. "She serves a Goddess, don't you know? And I'm not going to be the one to stand in front of a Goddess and tell her she has to have male priests and like it. Some short tempers, some of these female deities! You want to tell Sardok**(2)** she can't have women as priests? Anyone? No? Far as I'm concerned, the gel's served her time on the shop floor and she's good enough, or she would not have had a share in the Miracle!"

And afterwards, he had taken her aside and confided. "You do know the _real_ work begins here? And precious little of it's got to do with Octeday Evensong, my girl! You need to be an accountant, a manager, a politician, you have got to slam down hard on schismatics or they'll split the bloody church and halve yer income – look at the Omnians. You'll be lucky for five minutes alone to say yer morning prayers! Oh, and get yourself a talented scribe to write your holy books and see nobody tampers with them. An Authorised Version helps glue a church together, you follow? And if those buggers from the Musician's Union come round demanding a Guild tax, on the grounds you're holding a public performance of singin' and music twice every Octeday – threaten 'em with lightning bolts. Or instrument cases that are locked shut forever, your woman's _good_ at that!"

Extremelia sighed. She'd recruited an ex-sub-editor from the Inquirer – now a Deaconess - to put together the Gospel of Anoia, counselled her that she should consider what should be written with all due prayerful respect, and to "give it a bit of zip". The resulting holy book had become a best-seller and drew more of the Faithful to the Temple.

She shifted moodily on the throne.

The key to all this had been the Miracle, the sudden unlooked-for donative from the Postmaster, one day when he had gone into a religious rhapsody and the location of a buried treasure had been vouchsafed unto him.**(3) **Extremelia had had this written into the _Acts of Anoia, _the best-selling sequel to the Gospel, but given what had later been revealed about the character and previous life of Moist von Lipwig, she was inclined to doubt it.

It had bought her the freehold to the new Temple site. It had established the building. Money calls to money. People flocking to the Temple had brought in donations. The bingo sessions added more profit. Sales of the Gospel and the Acts were another revenue strand. Sales of gold and silver devotional spatulas and toasting forks were on the up. While the premises were protected by discreet subs to both the Assassins and the Thieves, she still thought it prudent to keep the more expensive and ornate jewelled ritual kitchenware under lock and key. and if Anoia didn't want a locked drawer or cupboard to open, it stayed closed...

But she looked back nostalgically to the days when practically the only visitor to the temple was Horace, and that because he thought Anoia was smiling on him every time his bets won. Which was often. Until Paddy banned him for winning too often and thus usurping the accepted bookie-to-punter relationship, he won his bets with uncanny frequency. But as he paid his stake to Extremelia through the steel bars of the cashier's window, he would add the unfortunately misinterpretable

"See you upstairs later, miss?"

Extremelia would nod, glare at anyone who dared to snigger, and later in the day, Horace would come round and hand over a percentage of his winnings in thanks to the Goddess, and ritually bend a fish-slice in her honour. She approved of this, as his donation meant she could eat at least _one_ meal a day.

This happened week after week. Finally, curiosity got the better of her.

"How do you _do_ it, Horace? Look, call this the confessional if you like. Secrecy applies. It goes no further than me."

And he told her…**(4)**

And so here she was. In the sort of Cathedral she'd dreamt of all her life, and it was _hers_. She'd worked for it, she'd planned it, she'd helped bring it about, and she was now head of an organisation with a six-figure turnover. Praise to Anoia.

She took off the mitre of office, festooned as it was with gold and silver cutlery. She wondered what the curtain between the two pillars was meant to conceal, in an arcane and occult sense. As far as she knew, it had been hung up to conceal Mrs Bolton the cleaner's broom cupboard. And why was there a _camel_ in the design of more than one of the stained-glass windows? She'd never noticed that before…

"Your Grace?"

It was young Deaconess Tracy, nervously edging towards the altar.

"What is it?" Extremelia was annoyed at being interrupted in her reverie.

"Mr von Lipwig and Miss Dearheart to see you, Your Grace. You _did_ say as patrons of the Cathedral, they should have access to you at any time."

"I'll be on my way."

Regretfully, she got up and donned the heavy uncomfortable crown again. Back to work…

* * *

(**1**) Paddy O'Mighty, the best odds in town! Originally a Hegenian immigrant who had worked long hours on building sites, studied the form religiously, and come to the conclusion that he'd make more money at it from collecting the bets rather than laying them. He'd employed Extremelia on the grounds that a priestess would be honest with the takings and act as a brake on unseemly language and behaviour in the shop.

**(2)** Sardok the bloody-handed had an exclusively female priesthood and devotional base in old Djelibeybi. Her High Priestess frightened all the other priests and even Dios treated her with respect. Something to do with all the tales about fearsome goings-on with sacred knives in ritual groves and it being a hard time for any man caught watching, apparently. See Terry Pratchett's _**Pyramids. **_

**(3) **See Terry Pratchett's **Going Postal **for the tale of Moist, Anoia, the mysterious gift of money, and Extremelia Mume as beneficiary.

**(4) **This will be dealt with later when we discuss the nature of** Fortune**, the tenth of the Major Arcana cards. See? I'm planning ahead…


	4. The Empress

3 The Empress

_A woman of more mature years – but apparently no older than her middle forties - sits in a brilliantly sunlit field among waving yellow corn stretching away to woods and a river. She is barefoot and in many interpretations of the card is obviously pregnant. She may be garlanded in a crown of flowers. Her clothing is good and well-made and in rich earthy colours. Bees and honey often figure. She may be holding the Cornucopia, the Horn of Plenty, out of which spills the richness of the harvest – fruits, vegetables, nuts, grain. Or else she is breast-feeding a baby. _

_This is the card of all things female: nurturing, providing, caring, motherhood. The planet Venus features as does the star sign Taurus – both are attributes of the Earth Mother. The harvest, the agricultural heritage, horticulture, the growing of plants, all figure, as does motherhood and pregnancy. _

_Yes, it __**can**__ mean "you're pregnant" (I never know whether to say "congratulations" or "oh, hard luck".) It can mean a superior but sympathetic female at work, it can betoken a marriage or promotion, it can point to nice things happening while Earth signs are in the ascendancy, it can herald a time of relative plenty. But a lot of work performed unstintingly for a long time has to go into reaping a good Harvest – these things don't just happen… and do not abuse the Empress's generosity nor take it for granted. Spurned or used, she is female power, and Hell hath no fury..._

Magrat Garlick, Queen of Lancre, was sweating in the spring heat. Her back hurt abominably. She straightened up from the herb garden, where she had been weeding and nurturing the plants. She _insisted_ this place was hers. Mrs Scorbic the cook could come here and – by invitation – pick what she needed for cooking. But she, Magrat, had made it abundantly clear that here, and the rose garden, and the nascent orchard that so far consisted of several woebegone-looking saplings, were _hers_. Her space, her responsibility, a place where she could come and nurture the idea that she was an Earth Mother. Or would be, once the baby arrived. From the pain in her back, the difficulty she had in kneeling and bending over, the feeling her feet had flattened and splayed out, and the undeniable fact her displaced bladder had shrunk to the capacity of a hazelnut shell, it couldn't be much longer now.

But being eight months gone certainly made gardening _difficult…_

She patted the bump and smiled to herself. She allowed herself a fantasy about her daughter – Nanny had been explicitly clear about that**(1)** - playing in the garden, while she, her mother, looked indulgently on. It was worth persevering for.

_Verence is inviting all the national rulers and monarchs to her naming day,_ she thought. _I'm so looking forward to hosting them. Laying on a feast, looking after all our friends, being the gracious hostess. Nanny's already laying in extra string bags for all the left-overs. What could possibly go wrong? _

Ignoring the discomfort, she set about tending to the _real_ herbs, the stuff of witchcraft and many a secret remedy. Many of these had been cuttings from Granny's herb garden. She wondered if Lord Vetinari would accept an invitation, or if not him, then which of the great and good of Ankh-Morpork would arrive in his name.

"_If he's sendin' any wizards, be sure he tells you in good time so as you can triple the food and drink order. They'll eat everythin' otherwise!" _Granny had warned. Magrat had a moment's doubt. Granny had visited the big city. Verence had lived and studied there. Both of them had seen wizards eat. Even so, Magrat doubted anyone could eat _that_ much…

But they'd manage and provide. It was a treat for the people of Lancre, too – a festival and a dinner at the King and Queen's gift.

_And the greatest gift I can give my daughter is that her name is spelt right, _Magrat decided.

Feeling the warm fuzzy heat of contentment inside, she returned to her weeding and pruning. It was a nice day in May. Magrat looked over at the orchard. She might stil be alive to see it in full maturity, in around fifty years time. But that sort of thing was a long-term investment. Her grandchildren and their children would have it to remember her by. _That_ was immortality.

A few of Mr Brooks's bees buzzed past. A witch at her core, Magrat spoke a greeting to them.

She wondered what the harvest would bring, later in the year.

* * *

**(1) **"You'll have your work cut out with some of them little buggers down the town. Oh, they're all babes in arms _now_, but I seen what their fathers was like. Believe you me, my girl, the fact your daughter's a princess won't stop 'em snifffin' in fifteen years time!"


	5. The Emperor

4 The Emperor

_Stern and bearded, a crowned man in the prime of life sits enthroned inside a hall whose walls are built of stone, with sparse decoration. He holds the sceptre of office and a sword is strapped to his waist. There may be a goblet of wine and a lit lamp in the picture, signifying the four primal elements turned purely to earthly glory with no thought of the esoteric significance. But like the Magician, he is a man who, at his most elevated, has learned to manifest and balance the qualities of all four. _

_He is all men, the embodiment of the masculine just as the Empress, his consort, is the embodiment of the feminine. He is Mars and Aries and is most powerful in March and April, the traditional New Year and time to enthrone a new monarch. The quality of "sovereignty" is here – the idea that the power of a kingdom and the power and virility of its king are intimately connected. (In the old days, the King was executed if the power of the land waned and crops failed__**(1)**__). He can be your father, your boss, your virility, your husband. He embodies all that is uniquely male, including lesser qualities such as the urge to fanatically follow a football club, or to gather together with other men to "waste time" (as wives put it) and to compulsively collect things that other people (wives) see no value in whatsoever and regard as clutter and eyesores…_

_She prefers the natural landscape and the unspoilt fields, forests and rivers. He, on the other hand, identifies himself with built and designed things – hence the stone wall behind his throne._

_

* * *

_

_This story might also be viewed as a sequel, or a Chapter Two, to my tale of post-Teppic Djelibeybi, __**Look Upon My Works And Despair.**_

"Fascinating!" said Lord Vetinari, bending over the model.

"Most fascinating!"

For some months now, an informal committee consisting of Leonardo Da Quirm, Mr Pony of the Artificers' Guild, and the Djelibeybian model-maker Grinjer, had been occupying a large committee room at the Patricians' Palace, seemingly only emerging to send out requests for more modelling materials. They had sent frequent progress reports to the Patrician, politely requesting he should not seek to view the Work until it was finished. Knowing it was to do with the Undertaking, and knowing the best men he could possibly find were on the case, Vetinari had not pressed the point, preferring to let them get on with it.

Today was the day of the informal Viewing.

Vetinari and his secretary Drumknott had been allowed into a transformed State And Committee Room Seven. The carpet was covered in the sort of sheeting painters lay down when redecorating.

Trestle tables had been erected round three of the four walls. They were groaning with pots, bottles, jars and tins of paint, glue, and other nameless substances. Tools of all shapes and sizes were laid out, and crates of building materials were scattered nearby. The air stank of the acrid smells of paint, glues, and solder and other strange things. Vetinari had wondered just for a second, on entering, if some of the smells betokened substances he had last dealt with in the Inimical Alchemy**(2)** Class at the Assassins' Guild School.**(3) **It was all quite nostalgic, really.

But the centrepiece of the room…

"Incredible!" breathed Drumknott.

"It's not finished properly yet" said Grinjer. "Not to my mind, anyway. I wanted to carry on painting it, so it _really _looks like a small-scale version of the prototype, but Mr Leonard said to leave it, time was pressing and he somehow felt that stark white was ideal for the model".

It was a model of the city, faithfully rendered in a constant 1:288 scale. The river meandered through it, helpfully painted a sickly grey-green-black . Its familiar squiggly line helped the viewers orientate themselves on what they were looking at and the relationship between things. Most of the buildings on the Isle of Gods had been finished to exquisite detail and even painted to look like uncannily real versions of their originals. That had been Grinjer, no doubt. Further out, everything had been left in stark white. Principal buildings of the City had been finished in the same exquisite detail, but the suburbs of Dimwell and Dolly Sisters and the Shades had been left with simple white blocks along and between the main roads, denoting mass housing.

"We also compromised in the vertical dimension, my Lord." said Leonard. "In this scale, the Tower of Art would have been nearly five feet tall, and the Tump Tower three. Since this is just the, ah, top layer, and needs to be physically moved, excessively high model structures would have been somewhat unwieldy."

"So I perceive" Vetinari said, his eyes roving over the model, appreciating a detail here and a point of exquisite workmanship there.

"Gentlemen, you have certainly managed a prodigy here. I am impressed." he said. "Whose idea were the very small Watchmen outside Pseudopolis Yard? That one, tiny though he is, is Vimes to the life!"

"Can you see the cigar, sir?" Grinjer inquired. "I couldn't leave that out!"

Vetinari smiled.

"You certainly have the City and all its landmarks here. Is that not so, Drumknott? The Guilds here, the temples here along God Street – the Cathedral of Anoia, I notice - the Opera House, the Tanty nearby – I have always suspected that building our main prison next to the Opera House must add an exquisite dimension to criminal punishment – and here, the Goosegate, the Lady Sybil Hospital, the Charitable Hospital of Seven-Handed Sek, the Balancing Monks' Hospital…"

"It is interesting, sir, that the City's principal hospitals all congregate together in the same general area." Drumknott observed. "It isn't the sort of thing you notice until you see it laid out like this."

"They share expertise. They trade in bedspaces, pharmaceuticals, staff, ideas, and professional abilities." Vetinari noted. "Also, all their supporting industries such as chemists, bandage-makers, funeral directors, and so on, can base themselves conveniently close to hand. People are beginning to revive the old name for the area, too_. Spitalfields. _The place of hospitals."

He looked up.

Some features are not familiar to me, gentlemen. These locations in red, marked with the Dwarvish sign of the Long Dark. Can you explain?"

"Yes, my Lord" said Mr Pony. "These are surface-level access points to the new _Underground._ Stairs and lifts will connect to the actual stations, which will be up to five hundred feet underneath so as to safely pass underneath the River and the Great Sewer. The points marked in green will be ventilation chimneys above the underground tunnels, designed to draw fresh air down to those levels and to expel the stale. Which leads me to… gentlemen, if you please? Time to reveal Level Two."

Mr Pony then went on to say that the top level of the model might with care be lifted off. We designed it so that it lifts away in smaller sections, each of which two men may handle with care… Leonard, your turn to take the presentation?

Drumknott gasped. Vetinari was entranced. For Leonard, once the scale model of the New Undercity was revealed, had begun setting things in motion. Literally.

"Using the old Dwarf tunnels, my lord, and the indefatigable propulsive power of the Device, I envisage that a _caravan train _of linked carriages might be propelled along set rails, pausing only to stop at designated stations along its route.

"In designing these carriages, I had to make use of the smallest clockwork motors that the Artificers could provide, and to, ah, _refine_ their operation to suit the needs of the model. The propulsive motor is located inside the lead carriage, which as you will see differs in size and purpose, and may be rewound thus. Obviously the real thing will be powered by the Device.

"You are observing a passenger _caravan train_ – the word is borrowed from the Klatchian convoys of camels across the desert – as it makes its way along the proposed Rimwards Line.

This links Droversfield, outside the City in New Ankh, with the Shambles, The Shades, The Whore Pits, the Opera House, Nap Hill, and finally to Leastways, on the other side of the city wall. This line necessarily has to run deep, as it crosses under the River in three places. Local stopping stations are proposed at these seven locations, and a spur line running off to the University, the Palace, and then Dolly Sisters…"

Vetinari listened and watched, his mind making plans to demonstrate the new Underground at the earliest possible moment, to the civic dignitaries who would help fund it, and to the Dwarfs and Trolls who would help build it. The Ptaclusp family had been right – a good architectural model got you a long way further than halfway to selling your ideas to the customer. And building in model _caravan trains_, too… ones that actually ran by themselves and demonstrated the idea so beautifully…

Havelock Vetinari also knew that, as the demands of State allowed, he would be spending a _lot_ of time here with the model railway. Refining the idea until the stopping stations were in the right places along routes that best served the City's needs, and the _caravan trains_ could be guaranteed to run on time, every time, could well become addictive… he caught Drumknott's eye. His secretary was watching with a rapt interest he normally only reserved for his collection of office stationery down the years.

"Do you think I might be able to help out on this project, sir?" he inquired. "It would sharpen my understanding of the issues involved."

"I do not see why not, Drumknott." Vetinari said, generously. Then he spoke to the three model-makers.

"Gentlemen, it occurs to me that in the future, once this idea is established, why stop there? Why not drive _overland_ lines through to the neighbouring cities so as to speed mass transportation?"

"Oh, we've thought of that, sir!" said Pony. "We envisage the Turnwise line out through Short Street and New Ankh terminates at the City Zoo. After all, lots of people want to go there. It's a popular destination. With spare land there, it would be the ideal place to establish an interchange with a projected line to the Stos and Pseudopolis. And later on, maybe, to Quirm and Uberwald…"**(4)**

He looked distant for a while and then smiled.

"If you have another spare room, my lord, we could set it up for you..." he said, hopefully.

**

* * *

**

**(1) **Today, of course, we vote them out of office – eventually – and they express remorse by picking up a huge pension and a meal-ticket for life on the lecture circuit. Or a seven-figure bonus from the bank they work for…

**(2) **Poisons.

**(3) **Over thirty years before, under a relatively young and not yet cynical teacher called Mr Mericet.

**(4) **Of course, this is _**exactly**_ how things are in Berlin where the Zoobahnhof is the central bus, rail and S-bahn interchange… the Zoostation is a fascinating place to sit for a while and just watch people!

_Leastways _and_ Droversfields _are names of my own devising for suburbs of the City which are outside the city walls and barely sketched out in the canon. Leastways - the urban area outside the Least Gate: Droversfields - the area outside the Shambling Gate, nearest the Cattle Market and slaughterhouse district, where cattle-herding drovers might bring their herds into the city; _Spitalfields _is as explained in the text and indeed an area of London, and Manchester, and of Maldon, Essex, and of several other British towns and cities. _Hospitality's Fields, _both a place for pilgrims and travellers to rest under auspices of the Church, and to get any injuries tended to, or to drop off any lepers for isolation. In English as well as French, the words _hospital, hotel _and _hospitality_ share a common root. This is remembered in the English place name **_Spitalfields. _**


	6. The Heirophant

5 The Hierophant (the Pope, the High Priest)

_The Heirophant sits in finely woven and colourful vestments, wearing the triple-tiered Papal crown. He is the male consort of the High Priestess, although a suggestion in both cards is that they pay at least lip-service to the ideal of celibacy. He holds the Holy Book in his left arm – close to his chest, as if he is afraid other people might actually take it into their heads to try and read it. He is therefore custodian of the received religious Word and wisdom. In his right hand he clasps the crook: symbol of the shepherd drawing in wayward sheep, a mark of the power of the Church to draw all to its bosom, by force if need be. _

_He is the embodiment of religion – not necessarily of spirituality – and represents the higher echelons of the Church, or by extension of any large corporation with a vested interest in retaining its own power, wealth, and influence. He is proof that the further away you ascend from the ordinary priesthood, the less any form of religion is involved – he is basically the CEO of a very large company trading in theology. One commentator said "he appears to be smiling to himself as if at some very private joke", implying that the ordinary believer is the punchline. _

_

* * *

_

General William Kiosk, in his sober black military-tailored uniform, put down the reports next to the balance sheet and sighed. **(1)**

He was alone in his office at the Citadel. Oh, Miss Rogerson was in the outer office, fielding communications and visitors for him, but in here, he was the General, at the desk next to the one where the buck ultimately stopped. As that other metaphorical desk was in the heavens somewhere and notionally occupied by the Great God Om, this effectively meant that the buck went no further, despite occasional fervent prayer.

He sighed again, and ran a finger round the red collar-tabs and silver braiding of his status.

Life had been so much _simpler_ for the Legion in the old days, before Brutha. Under the command of Deacon Vorbis, the Divine Legion had been a fearsome military machine, which had converted whole nations to the Word of Om by brute force and lots of sharp metal spiky things.

Today, the only metal that could remotely be described as martial was in the hands of the Army's bands, and damn good they were, who regularly paraded in the City to play the old tub-thumping hymns that had such a hypnotic effect on the populace. The only problem was, the girl soldiers with the collecting boxes had to skip lively to take advantage of this before the hypnosis wore off: Kiosk had seen with his own eyes Ankh-Morpork citizens, drawn despite themselves into the hymn-singing, distractedly dig deep in their pockets for a mite or an elim to drop in the box being shaken in front of their singing face. _I's better than nothing, but it's still only mites and elims. _And they never stayed for the sermon… well, some did, but only in the hope of more music later.

Kiosk reflected on the history of the Legion. Threatened with disbandment by the Prophet Brutha**(2)**2, the Divine Legion had reformed and mutated to save itself. General Simony, its first commanding officer after Fr'it's Exquisition, had seen nothing wrong in principle with the regimental bands being kept on the Citadel's strength to pep everyone up with a bit of stirring music. Indeed , every new recruit had to be proficient in one musical instrument, be it only a tambourine in the case of the jolly, enthusiastic, girl soldiers who did so much to keep the Omnian Divine Army of Salvation in business.

Other ex-soldiers were forcibly made to take the course in persuading people with arguments, not spears and the threat of a duffing-over and having your house burnt down, friend.

After a period, bands and evangelists were sent out from the Citadel to the main cities of the Disc, to preach the Omnian way, the new Omnian way, through stirring music and good works.

And because they weren't bloody idiots, jut enough members were trained in the old Legion ways to act as bodyguard and visible deterrent to the forces of evil.

Which here in Ankh-Morpork were a legion of their own. The security detail was working overtime, escorting bands into the Shades, where musical instruments were seen as high-value theft items to fence and turn into hard cash. There was the particular force of evil represented by the Musicians' Guild, who said they didn't give a stuff about exemption on religious grounds, your bandsmen are musicians, ergo Guild members, and they pony up the subs, right?

Wrong, Kiosk had said, and street-fighting had ensued, rescued only by High Priest Ridcully, who had lent his support to the Omnians on the grounds that if one religion gets hit by those shysters, we are all in trouble. Faced by a united front of the city's religious groups – as one thing churches don't like is parting with hard cash – the Musicians had retreated, but still sent demands from time to time.

Kiosk had established the Ankh-Morpork Citadel, from which the Army of Salvation paraded and did good works. It provided hostels for the homeless; a shonky shop that provided clean and serviceable second-hand clothing; a soup kitchen (also resented by the Guild of Chefs, Cooks and Professional Caterers) and a second-hand furniture and domestic goods business, where donated items were refurbished and either sold on at low cost or given away.

But all this cost money…. Kiosk's concern was raising the costs and storing some in the bank for a rainy day. He started on the post.

_Bill. Statement. Invoice… Ah, Om be praised! Lady Sybil Ramkin has given us two thousand dollars to carry on the charitable work. She has also suggested a charity dragon-show where the profits go to us. _

This meant he would have to attend Ramkin Manor. He hoped his dress uniform was clean enough. Perhaps take some of the younger officers, if Lady Ramkin agrees? _Maybe get the Times to do an article, at least run an iconograph. All good PR for the Church. _

* * *

1 (1) Roundworld reference: Geeral William Booth founded the Salvation Army on Roundworld.

2 **(2) **See_**Small Gods**_ by Terry Pratchett.


	7. The Lovers

6 The Lovers

_**Thank you for all the kind and positive comments garnered so far! Here's the next episode…**_

_A man and a woman stroll or stand in a garden. By inference – their clothing denotes them of the same social class – they are a married couple. While the woman's eyes are on the man, he is looking elsewhere. Following his gaze, we see a second woman, standing at the edge of the scene, returning his glance or actively beckoning him. Compared to the soberly dressed and rather dowdy wife, she is dressed to kill and looks younger and more attractive. Above her in the sky, the most destructive god of all, the cherub archer Cupid/Eros, is aiming an arrow at the man. _

_Well, we've all heard the grass is greener on the other hill… this card is about choices and decisions. Yes, the most obvious one here is the seven-year itch when one's husband or wife may not seem as attractive as they once were. Then a new possibility comes along… dissatisfaction with your current life and a desire to find something better. Temptation. Do you give into it? The message is that you cannot be blamed for temptation – we all face it. The choices you make are all yours and you will be judged by others on the choices you make, especially if you are seen to hurt people by selfishly following your whim. And depending on where you stand, you could be any of the four characters in this card…_

In a rare quiet moment, Sacharissa Cripslock sat in the living room in her marital home and sipped a lukewarm cup of tea.

Normally life for the city's first lady of letters was a rush of meetings, interviews, editorial discussions, marketing meetings, conferences with sub-editors at both the Times and the plethora of magazines to which she was Executive Editor. But today was a quiet newsday, and her junior editors were well enough embedded in their jobs now to be able to do the bulk of it for themselves, without needing to ask her or William every five minutes.

_William. _

Thought of him hit her like a quiet rebuke to her conscience. She pushed it away. He could manage.

Then she looked at her wedding ring, and once again, as she had done almost continually for nearly two years, asked herself if she'd made an awful mistake. Oh, her husband was kind, and attentive, and was a good provider, and in his own way he certainly cared for her. But she wasn't sure, when she got right down to it, if she cared all that much for _him._

And they'd had arguments.

He bitterly resented her refusal to use his name and her insistence that she remained Sacharissa Cripslock even after marriage. He also deplored her desire for a career for something other than being his wife. But she'd won both arguments by force of personality. And… her eyes flickered to the thing that was in the glass case in the centre of the mantelpiece, which she'd retrieved from childhood debris in the attic.

Sacharissa found she was easing her wedding ring up and down her finger, as if playing with the idea of taking it off completely.

She pushed it resolutely right down to the base of her finger, although not very tightly. She had decided, hadn't she? There were Standards to be kept up. She was his wife so long as he lived.

But something in her soul screamed at the idea of being Mrs Sacharissa Carney forever.

And the decision, when caught between two men with an interest in her, had been so straightforward. She had known Ronnie Carney for years. He was the nearest thing she had had to a childhood sweetheart. There was no real malice in him, even though Sacharissa considered him a little bit weak-willed. Besides, they were both of the same social class – Sacharissa had heard the Quirmian words _bourgeoisie _and _poujadiste _in discourse with the Widdershinist**(1)** political thinker Reg Shoe, a man who could be counted on to use them in their correct context. She felt they fitted her station in life. And Ronnie's. There had been _fit_ there, in a way she would not have felt with William. It would not have been _fitting_ for one of her social standing to have leapt up a few rungs of the ladder and become Lady de Worde. She knew this to the pit of her middle-middle class soul.

And William had taken it philosophically enough when she'd told him of her decision. He had wished her well, and wished Ronnie well, and then said to her to let him know if things changed. He had attended the wedding, but left the reception diplomatically early.

Well, it kept their working relationship purely professional and above-board.

_But she still wanted him. _

She sighed and put the treasonous thought out of her mind. Nearly three. At three-thirty she had an interview with the Woman of the Week candidate, Miss Sanderson-Reeves from the Assassins' Guild, a woman tipped to be the first-ever Guild Mistress**(2)**. And she knew this particular Assassin was a stickler for punctuality.

She finished her tea, then put her gloves on again, prior to going out in the street and hailing a cab.

_I'm having a working dinner with William later, _she thought, happily, as she left to resume her work.

And from the glass case atop the mantelpiece, a three-legged wooden cow stared wobbily back, a relic of a shared childhood with Ronald Carney and an ever-present threat to him not to step too far in his dealings with her.**(3)**

**

* * *

**

**(1) **_**Widdershinist**_**:- **Playing with words here and trying to get a Discworld variant of "left-wing". "_**Poujadiste**_" refers to a specific middle-class mentality where appearances count, Keeping Up Standards is all and everything, nobody has affairs or goes into debt, and people of all other social classes (and ethnicities) are viewed with deep suspicion. Above all, people stay in bad marriages because it Does Not Do to divorce or have an affair, and For The Sake Of The Children is embossed in gold letters. To be _poujadiste_ is a slightly more genteel version of the Cockbill Street Mentality.

**(2) **See my Assassins' Guild School stories **The Graduation Class, Murder Most 'Orrible **and others. Joan Sanderson-Reeves is a fearsome classroom monster - until you get past the pineapple.

**(3) **See _**T**__**he Truth**_ by Terry Pratchett for how the wooden cow lost one of its legs.


	8. The Chariot

7 The Chariot

_The Chariot is about movement and mobility. It usually shows a literal chariot towed by horses (or other draught animals), or at the very least some sort of wheeled machine. It has a visible driver holding the reins and steering the creatures drawing it. _

_Interpretation of the card is consistent: in most cases __**you**__ are the driver. Are you in control of the animals? Are you in charge of them and guiding your life as you should – or are they leading you, in which case your life is out of control? In classical designs, there is usually a black horse and a white. These associate to the black and white pillar behind the throne of the High Priestess: the conscious and subconscious levels of the mind, the Id and Ego of Freud, the two root souls of the Platonists. This makes the driver the Superego steering the energies of the lower levels. Or the third, human, soul, overlaying the vegetative soul and the animal soul over which the human mind only has conditional control._

_Simply put: if you aren't in control of the car, Karma will find you and you will crash - "My karma has just run over my dogma!". And then land you with insurance bills, loss of licence, and charges for dangerous/negligient driving. _

_Alternatively you might be one of the draught animals steering __**somebody else's**__ chariot. Are you happy with this or do you long to break away and make the decisions for yourself? _

_

* * *

_

Commander Vimes looked sideways to Captain Carrot on one side and to Sergeant Angua on the other. They had all taken the morning off street duties to interview a selection of hopeful new applicants to the Watch. Vimes felt happiest with his two most trusted officers at either side. He knew they were experienced officers who were well aware of what the Watch needed, and who could be trusted, on his slack reins, to lead and direct the ever-expanding City Watch in the right direction. Although he did worry about losing one or both of them – both had come to the brink of leaving the Watch in the past, and he knew neither could be easily replaced.

He put the uneasy thought out of his mind and lit a fresh cigar.;

"Sir, if you don't mind?" prompted Angua. He grinned sheepishly and stubbed it out. It wasn't fastidiousness on Angua's part: when interviewing recruits; it wasn't so much body language she looked at, as whether the smell was right and trustworthy and honest. It added a new and concealed dimension to Watch job interviews. What she didn't need was strong cigar smoke, and he respected this.

"Send the next one in, please, A.E." he directed.

Sergeant Pessimal hastened to obey, the Drumknott to Vimes' Vetinari and fourth member of the interviewing tribunal, the man who took the written record and was therefore vital too.

He opened the door to the latest would-be recruit.

"You may come in now. Stand in front of the desk and wait to be invited to sit".

The candidate was a youth of about eighteen, thin and slightly feral, like a distant better-nourished relative of Nobby Nobbs. He wore what might have been coachman's livery, with the braiding and epaulettes removed to make a passable-looking, if archaic, formal suit. The Vimes mental file index clicked into gear. _I've seen this one before… oh yes. __**Now **__I know him. _

"Do take a seat" he said, smiling mirthlessly. "We'll be informal here. _Johnny_."

"Why do you want to join the Watch?" Angua asked, watching intently for his reaction. The youth looked nervously at her, and then composed himself.

"Well, ma'am, sirs, since I lost my last job, work's been a bit thin on the ground in my chosen career. So when I heard the Watch was recruiting for drivers with exceptional proven ability, I thought, well, that's for me, and got over here double-quick to fill the forms in".

"You're certainly a driver" Vimes said, briskly shuffling papers till he found the right ones. _That iconographic copier of Leonard's certainly speeds up multiple copies of paperwork, he thought. Just rotate one iconograph machine through ninety fegrees and place the paper you want to be copied in the tray underneath it. One imp on a treadmill draws the iconograph along while the other does the copy, and if necessary they've got directed salamander light to work by. Within seconds, a copy comes out of the top slot. __**(1)**_

"I know because a year or two ago, I vitally had to be home for six one evening, and you very kindly gave me a lift part of the way."**(2)**

Some memories never fade. Like the young coachman attempting to drive his carriage up a rapidly opening half-bridge, with the intention of jumping the gap, between the masts of a moving ship, and landing safely on the other half-bridge section opposite.

Vimes suppressed a shudder. Although he already knew, he made himself ask

"And how exactly did your last employment end?"

The youth looked away and took a deep breath.

"Sacked, sir. Without references. Although if that nightsoil cart hadn't been in the way, I'd have managed that Blockade-Runner's Spin, and the coach wouldn't have been damaged."

"_Wrecked_" corrected Vimes. "Written off. Destroyed totally."

He remembered the report from Traffic Division. No wonder Lady Anstruther had lost her patience and sacked him without references. Her coach destroyed, the horses only saved by the intervention of passing Igors, and everything, including Fred Colon and two Traffic trolls, smothered in night-soil.

"You have a thousand-dollar bill to pay for the coach, and Harry King's boys aren't happy either about a wrecked honey-wagon". Vimes summarised. "Not to mention charges which may yet go the length of the Patrician. And you want to join the Watch?"

"If I may, sir". Carrot said, politely. "I suggested it might be a good idea if this candidate came to us. Remember that chase the other week, one of our coaches against a souped-up Crysophrase model suspected of smuggling Slab in from the mountains? And they lost us because we simply couldn't keep up? You said then we need better police coaches, and drivers with a touch of the maniac about them who know when to take risks… well, just perhaps we've got the makings of a good pursuit driver here."

Vimes considered for a few moments.

"You've got no way of paying off Harry King and your former employer?"

"None at all, sir." said the youth. Vimes sighed. He looked to Angua for confirmation. She nodded.

"OK, here's the deal. You sign on as a probationary lance-constable and do the same training as anyone else. Then I assign you as a pursuit driver to the Flying Squad of the Cable Street Particulars. Gods know, you're enough of a maniac. I will pay off Harry King and cut a deal with Lady Anstruther, as one titled person to another. She can, I don't know borrow a spare Ramkin coach in perpetuity, we've got plenty. Anything I pay Harry in damages, you pay back to me, call it two dollars a month or something. Any driving charges, I will use my Watch discretion and consider they're now dealt with out of court. Congratulations, you're in the Watch, report to Sergeant Detritus at the Lemonade Factory at eight tomorrow morning, Johnny…."

"Moss, sir." said the youth.

"Probationary Lance-Constable Moss." Vimes said, extending a hand.

The youth grinned and took it.

"Sterling! " he said, in approval. **(3)**

* * *

1 **(1) **The _**Machine For Copying Iconographs By Means Of A Second Iconograph**_, anoher example of Leonard's genius. Within a day of having it installed, By operation of an inexorable multidimensional law, Vimes had not been surprised to find a perfect iconograph of Sally von Humpedinck's bottom in the out tray. As the Watchwomen had been out _minge-drinking _the night before, he let it slide.

2 **(2) **See _**Thud! **_by Terry Pratchett.

3**(3)** Sterling Moss was a British Formula One racing champion in the 1960's.


	9. Justice

8 or 11 Justice

_As seen atop the Law Courts of the Old Bailey, a robed and blindfolded Goddess raises a sword in her right hand. A set of scales depend from her right hand.. She is Astrea or Justicia to the Romans, Themis or the (retrospectively) unfortunately named Dike to the Greeks. There are elements here too of the Egyptian Thoth, in whose scales the heart of the newly deceased is weighted against the feather of Truth. _

_It is her job to interpret and administer Justice. She represents Instant Karma in a reading – you are just about to reap what you nave sown, and you had better have been behaving yourself as her awards are just and correct. On a more mundane level, she associates with the sign Libra and the period of late September and early October. The appearance of this card in a reading may suggest you are about to have an interesting and possibly expensive time dealing with lawyers and the courts, or that a dispute/disagreement of some sort is about to be resolved – not necessarily in your favour. Or one could be just about to begin. _

_

* * *

_

The general breakdown in accepted law and order had begun long before the days of Patricians Winder and Snapcase, but had accelerated quite dramatically under the jurisdiction of those two incumbents.

Preferring to divert the bulk of resources allocated to the City Watch into the activities of the Cable Street Particulars, in order to pursue and root out the perceived greater evil of sedition and revolution, normal law enforcement had atrophied. The City Watch had not yet degenerated into a handful of drunks and otherwise unemployables who nobody in their right minds could take seriously - that would come later – but the process had already become noticeable.

This was not helped by the attitude of the Guild of Lawyers under the inscrutable and ruthless Mr Slant. Taking their traditional viewpoint that elevation to the judiciary meant a substantial loss of earnings – a judge had to be seen as impartial and unbiased, otherwise confidence in the due process of law would collapse more than it already had – being elected to the Bench was something that most normally ambitious and income-aware lawyers sought to avoid. Therefore, the judiciary had dwindled to a handful of largely ineffectual, often senile, old men, "advised" by Clerks of the Court whose first loyalty was to the Guild.

It also meant that with lawyers taking on only the most certain and profitable cases - and certainly not those of the poor and indigent – the Law operated only in favour of the rich and privileged.

It was said, with some certainty, that Ankh-Morpork Law was the best that money could buy.

So when Patrician Snapcase assumed the duties of the judiciary to himself and begun to pass judgement on cases – although he had no formal law training – people began to worry. It didn't help that his insanity was clear for all to see and on top of this, he was being "personally advised" by Mr Slant. The case of Rex v Boggis was the last straw and precipitated far-reaching events.

Mr Boggis, a sneak thief and a member of the hitherto unrecognised Guild of Thieves, Housebreakers, Cutpurses and Allied Trades, was brought to trial at the Patrician's Palace following his detention by members of the "reformed" Cable Street Particulars.

Clearly showing the signs of physical abuse, he was arraigned on three sample charges of theft, and a major charge of belonging to an illegal and seditious organisation, to wit, the Guild of Thieves, Housebreakers, Cutpurses and Allied Trades.

He was further accused of holding high office in that Guild (he did) and of plotting to bring down the Patrician (he had been approached, but was seeking official recognition for the Guild as the price to be paid for its support).

Lord Snapcase, who was clearly not fully compos mentis, presided from behind a thick armour screen (as defence against Assassins) painted with occult symbols (as a defence against wizards) and adorned with the curse "Free Love!" (as a defence against Seamstresses).

Addressing the court as "_M'Learned vegetables_!" he launched into a confused and paranoid speech about having enemies everywhere, declared that any attempt to unseat him as self-evidently the City's wisest Patrician ever was akin to cutting your own nose off to spite your face, noted that in the very old days guilty Thieves often did have their noses and ears cut off, and concluding that he had no option other than to command that the defendant's nose shall be cut off, since his defence for the acts of theft was one of poverty and inability to buy food – well, then, waste not want not, let him eat it!**(1)**

When the news of this judgement got out, the City exploded.

Some say it was common feeling of revulsion against an unjust and barbaric sentence.

Others say it was the more powerful Guilds working together to exploit rage at inflation and shortages, anger at Snapcase's incessant and mindless wars that had bankrupted the City and killed far too many of its young men, and to advance their own Guild interests to a point where official recognition was made.

Whatever the reason, the City erupted. Among other acts of insurrection, the Cable Street Particulars were burnt out – again. The Law Courts, long moribund, were attacked in force by the Thieves' Guild, who threw out the judges and the clerks and declared this was now their Guild headquarters. The young Mr Boggis was freed, nose still intact, and assumed high position, though not leadership, within his Guild. Seamstresses formed the Thin Red Line across Broad Way, daring Snapcase's soldiers to shoot and cut down innocent women. (Well, innocent to a given _value_ of "innocent"). The soldiers blinked and fell back, refusing to shoot what in many cases were sisters, neighbours, female friends and relatives. Older soldiers realised this meant their recreational prospects would fall to "no chance". Wise soldiers spotted the Agony Aunts taking their place in the line and doubted their ability to come out on the winning side in that battle. But the Army mutinied and stood down.

Snapcase fell from office in circumstances still undisclosed to this day. Rising to power in equally secretive mode, the young Lord Vetinari resolved the civil unrest by offering official recognition to the Thieves and Seamstresses. He sweetened the offer by handing over the deeds and freehold of the Law Courts to the thieves, with no strings attached.

It was only later the Thieves realised they'd been saddled with a building that was leaky, draughty, expensive to maintain, and requiring ruinously expensive investment. But they were in no position to complain about this as by then, Vetinari had offered them the New Deal, a system of open-ness and social respectability which Guild leader Stren Withel had snatched at with both hands, only to discover that Vetinari now knew where they all lived, what their spouse and children's names were, where they went to school, et c. As the City's main revenue-raising agency – ie, the proportion of income from Theft paid over to the exchequer represents a fair and effective form of income tax – the Thieves also have the opprobrium that in other societies is due to the taxman. Vetinari merely collects and remains shielded from censure.

And a new era began.

The Law Courts of old remain the headquarters of the Guild of Thieves, Housebreakers, Cutpurses and Allied Trades. It also houses part of the Thieves' Guild School. Stren Withel did not last long after the drawbacks of the New Deal became apparent, and Mr Boggis, his nose mercifully reprieved (Vetinari generously threw a clause into the agreement assuring the Thieves their noses were safe from harm) took over as Guild Leader.

The Thieves view their occupation of the Law Courts as a huge and satisfying joke. They cheerfully point out to outsiders that the homes of _really_ outrageous theft and larceny – the Royal Bank and the Guild of Lawyers – remain untouched by them and are in the hands of _really _stylish crooks. Especially since honorary lifetime Guild member Moist von Lipwig took over at the Bank.

And the plan to allow the City Watch to atrophy and dwindle to nothing remains one of Vetinari's great failures, although he has been heard to say it was at the time a sensible policy he inherited from the previous administration, and he saw no reason to change it. But times change, and Justice requires a stern sword in her right hand as well as the scales in her left. As long as Vimes is the sword and Slant the scales, and the left hand truly does not know what the right hand is doing, the happier he is.

As for the Name of Justice, in a literally-minded City such as this, better we call her Themis or Astrea. Otherwise amusing misunderstandings may happen of the sort that irritate Miss Band of the Assassins' Guild, and she is not a woman to irritate lightly. **(2) **

**

* * *

**

**(1) **This expands the brief mention of the fall of Snapcase as related in _**The Last Continent. **_

**(2) **There are well-founded whispered rumours about Alice Band's, er, _gender preferences_. Reference to a goddess called Dike could only fan the flames.


	10. the Hermit

9 The Hermit

_A richly dressed Wizard is walking out and is often seen ascending to a mountaintop, where he stands in lonely contemplation. A long way below him it is possible to see the lights of a city – this card is always a night scene – and moonlight reflecting off a distant river, meandering through countryside. The Wizard holds his staff before him, and illumination radiates from a jewel or globe at the end, by which he sees his way in the dark. _

_This card denotes a time-out, a period of retreat from the world, quiet reflection and contemplation. A necessary re-charging of batteries before returning to the fray, possibly a holiday or necessary time off work. Keen and attentive study is also indicated – perhaps the card for a student or an academic? _

_Or, for a student of the arcane arts, breathing space to revise before a test that takes you to the next level. _

_

* * *

_

"_Winged you, you bloody bugger!" _bellowed Mustrum Ridcully, as the second string of his over-and-under**(1)** crossbow snapped back and the bolt flew true towards the luckless bird (which was actually a bustard, rather than a bugger),

He nodded with satisfaction as the hunting dragons waddled forward to retrieve the bird. There was nothing like getting' away into the country by yerself for a day or two, away from the University, away from the bloody Faculty, to recharge yer batteries and get a bit of precious thinkin' time. Stibbons was fit, after all, and he could be trusted to keep the machine tickin' over while he, the Arch-Chancellor, took a vacation. And the lad had been _more _than helpful in findin' him a broomstick to fly himself and his kit up into the mountains.

He paused. He hadn't got to be Arch-Chancellor without being a little bit paranoid and suspicious.

_Strikes me the lad was a damn' sight __**too**__ keen to see the back of me for a few days. He got me the broomstick fully charged with oomph, he made sure one of the kennel-masters from the family estates was up here with me hunting dragons to collect, everything's gone without a bloody hitch, and that's either good organisation – Stibbons is __**good**__ at that, to give him his due – or he positively relishes not havin' me around and bein' in charge for a week. Wonder what Vetinari called him to the Palace for the other week? __**(2) **__No, I don't need to wonder - Havelock stirrin' things as usual. Well, I hope the other men behave themselves and I bloody well hope there's a University for me to come back to! _

Ridcully shrugged. Nothing he could do about it, and with a bit of luck, the Faculty were being as fractious for the de facto Vice-Chancellor as they were for him, teach the lad a lesson or two in man-management.

He breathed in the rich mountain air and surveyed the river. The dragons waddled back to him, the body of the luckless bird carried between two beaks.

"Good lads!" Ridcully praised them. "We'll all eat tonight! If I bag me some salmon too, it'll be a turf 'n' surf!"

He'd go fishing in the afternoon, he reflected. A broad grin crossed his face. Mustrum Ridcully was enjoying himself, in his natural element, doing what he loved best – making nature even redder in tooth and claw, making life even more difficult for animal species from bears and eagles downwards.

In the fading light, Ridcully sat at his campsite, fowl and fish occasionally spitting fat in the flames as he turned their spits. The carcass of a deer laid nearby as a courtesy detail.

In he distance, he could see the light of a city on the plains, a coulpe of thousand feet below. But the urban noise and thunder down in the valley below was not his concern. He felt happily distanced from it as he contemplated his life.

_Some people think a wizard should head up into the mountains to get away from life. I agree with that. A fellow needs his thinkin' time. But unless you want to say you've bagged the bugger, like I did at Copperhead when I was a lot younger, what's the sense of going all the way up? I only climbed the blessed thing to impress Esme, and blow me if the moment I get to the summit, she turns up on a bloody broomstick and tells me that much though she don't hold with flyin', it's an easier way up, and faster, too. And then she skips off talkin' to trolls and dwarfs for the rest of the day like it's no big thing!_

He turned the meat again. The dragons looked up from their feed of assorted offal mixed with charcoal and their eyes turned expectantly to him. Ridcully returned to his reverie.

_No, no sense in goin' right up to the pointy bit at the top. Though some wizards do, are used to, when we were more athletic and less addicted to twelve-course meals. Where's the sense? Nothin' worthwhile to shoot, all the decent animals are well below you, it's bloody cold, the air's too thin and there's always some bloody Hublandese monk in a cave talkin' rot about the sound of one hand clapping. Must be the altitude sickness getting' to them, makes them hallucinate. _

In a tree by the brook, a songbird, possibly a nightingale, sang.

Ridcully shook his head.

_Too late now to think about Esme. Waste of effort and a bit misgiven. But she's doin' well for herself. And she's happy, far as I or anyone else can tell. She never believed anyone else could build her a stairway to heaven. Mind you, she's never believed in heaven, either. Send her up there and she'd be criticisin' the quality of clouds, the incessant bloody harp music, refusin' wings on the grounds she's never really got on with flyin' so why should she start now, and hangin' the halo on a hatpeg cos' she'll never give up the witch's hat…_

Ridcully looked to the Widdershins, and had an uneasy feeling. He noted the campfire was sending up perfect smoke rings. Association of ideas made him wonder about a pipe. He'd taken late to smoking**(3)**, reluctantly accepting some things are mandatory for senior wizards, and had realised a pipe in hand gave you the appearance of looking wise, while the incessant fiddling with the bloody thing to stop it goin' out meant you could avoid inhaling the smoke.

He heard the hungry dragons howling as they looked on. Responding to their voices, he kindly said "Won't be long now, you men!"

Something too small to bother shooting was bustling in the hedgerow. A dragon padded off to investigate.

Ridcully frowned. Why had he thought of bagpipes all of a sudden? Infernal bloody noise they made. Or else Hoki the bloody jokester was near with his bloody drainpipes.

After a while, with no manifestation of godhood or bagpipes to trouble him, he relaxed.

And as he cooked, he had a flash of insight: perhaps an inspiration particle meant for somebody else had called on his brain.

_To be a rock, and not to roll….. _he turned the phrase over in his head. Neat, pithy. Good for me autobiography. It summed up the lives of people like him and Esme Weatherwax. But Esme might have added that sometimes even a rock has to roll, when it bloody well has to. The trick was knowing _when. _

He uncorked a brandy flask, looked Widdershins towards Lancre, and saluted Esme.

_May the whisperin' wind take you me best wishes. May you find gold, in whatever form you value it most. _He stopped short at white light. She would have thought that _showy._

And a wizard and the dragons ate their collective fill. Tomorrow, who knows? _Maybe a bear._

* * *

**(1) **An over-and-under shotgun is a variant marketed for hunters, where the two barrels and operating chambers are one above the other, a double-decker, rather than side-by-side as on conventional guns. Upper-crust gunsmiths Purdeigh of London (think Burleigh of Ankh-Morpork) build bespoke variants for the price of a small family car. It is entirely in keeping with Mustrum Ridcully that he has a double-decker crossbow, for ease and speed of shooting.

**(2) **See chapter **The Magician **in this story**. **

**(3) **When we first see Ridcully in _**Reaper Man**_, he and his brother Hughnon are seen in discourse. The Chief Priest refuses Mustrum's offer of a brandy on the grounds that alcohol is a deceiver and bad for the soul, but offers Mustrum a cigarette, which he refuses, citing the damage they cause to the lungs. It is clear the early Ridcully is a rare thing, a non-smoking wizard. Yet by _**Unseen Academicals**_, he is craving a smoke only to find out that Mrs Whitlow has cleared away no less than three of what he fondly imagined were secret stashes of cigarettes and pipe tobacco. Clearly the pressures of being Arch-Chancellor have made him, uncharacteristically, succumb to peer pressure. You wonder if Hughnon has also succumbed and secretly drinks the communion wine…

* * *

Anyone familiar with the original good 'ol 12" vinyl version of _**Led Zeppelin IV (Untitled, Zozo**_, and other names) will have seen the gatefold LP cover opens out into a depiction of the tarot card, the Hermit. I have paid due homage to two tracks on the LP in this fanfic.


	11. The Wheel of Fortune

10 Wheel of Fortune

_The Wheel turns for everyone. (Well, almost everyone, but we will deal with strange exceptions later.) Wheels are part of everyone's life. The turning seasons of the year – this card is ivten taken as depicting the passage of a full year in time – the "circle game__**(1)**__" of life itself; the cogwheels and circular sweep of a watch or clock face; the wheels under the Chariot; the roulette wheel of F****a, a Goddess whose name is carefully not spoken lest she fail to appear. Gambling is a possibility here. _

_The card depicts the Buddhist prayer wheel, with a reptile, an ape, and a man, at three of its four cardinal points. This symbolises the upward evolution of life, and again hearkens back to the Platonist concept of the three superimposed souls, vegetable/reptilian; animal, and human, the id, ego and superego, and the hypothalamus, hindbrain, and corpus callosum. (the three superimposed human brains, one atop the other)_

_The fourth and uppermost cardinal post is occupied by a lotus flower, symbolising the next stage in evolution, the emergence of the fourth brain, and the only dimly guessed at higher-than-human life forms. _

_The message is that we are all passengers on the Wheel, both the lesser wheel of our own life and the greater one of the interconnected universe. At any one time some people are going up; some people are going down. Which are you? _

_And really inventive thinkers, like History Monk Lu-Tze, might consider that just sitting on the rim and passively waiting for the wheel to turn is not enough. What's wrong with running __**across **__it, using the spokes…_

Lu-Tze, the renowned Sweeper, stood on the precarious bridge over the central floor of the Hall of Mandelas. The Abbot, now in the form of a sulky and hormonal adolescent youth of about fourteen, stood nearby, occasionally remembering to stand up straight and look attentive, but most of the time in a slumped listless angry scowl. Full of injured teenage _angst_, he stared fiercely into the distance.

With then were half a dozen senior monks, who were being initiated into one of the Higher Degrees of the Order of the Monks of Time.

Lu-Tze sighed and shook his head, With the Abbot at his current age, it would mainly be down to him, then. He looked at the knot of freshly shaven-headed monks in their impeccable saffron robes, as they wordlessly competed with each other to look the most keen and attentive.

"Right, you lot. Oh, _relax,_ wonderboys, and try not to look like a herd of constipated _thargas_! It don't become you, so breathe out, act natural, take it easy! This is a lesson, remember, not a test!"

Lu-Tze waited until they had all relaxed, then said

"Look down. What do you see?"

"A pattern in the sand? Outlined in all colours?" one monk nervously ventured.

"Right, good start. But what _shape_ is it, wonderboy?"

"Circular? It's got a rim, and bands of all colours…"

"Full marks for observation." Said Lu-Tze. "But what do you _actually_ see in there? What does it _mean_?"

Another of the monks was leaning over the edge, watching intently. Finally he spoke.

"It looks static" he said. "But it isn't. As far as I can make out, all the sand grains are moving and shifting all the time and gradually forming new patterns as they interact with each other. Erm."

"Got it in one. Give that lad a big steaming bowl of _thunga_!" he said, exultantly. "With extra _momos_!" _Maybe some of 'em aren't as dense as they seem…_

Lu-Tze suddenly fired full of serious intent. "He's right. It's in continual movement. What you are looking at down there is the Mandala for the whole world. Everything in it is in continuous interaction, right, with everything else. And we are dead lucky that for once everything is in balance and harmony with itself, though it might not _seem_ that way when you're on the ground and watching. This is a picture of the world, right? And the world is a _process_. Everything is a _process_. And _processes_ need time to happen in, which is why you wonder boys are here!"

He paused to let this sink in, and went on:

"and because everything is the way we want it, all the movements are imperceptible and harmonious and you only notice 'em if you squint your eyes up and stare for a long time. It took a long time to achieve this and with any luck it will last until the next time one of the buggers gets the bright idea to build a Glass Clock, or something equally numbskulled. I don't know, talk about turkeys looking forward to Hogswatch".

Lu-Tze shook his head. All eyes swivelled as a thin reedy whine came from the other end of the group.

"_Nobody understands me mumblemumble I'm so depressed mumblemumble I'll throw myself off, see if anyone cares. Or even notices."_

Lu-Tze sighed. He'd been here before, the last few times the Abbot had reincarnated. It had been left to him to deliver the stern _in loco parentis_ talk about _no, it doesn't put hair on the palms of your hands and it doesn't make you go blind, and if you remember, Abbot, we are not a celibate order, though you lose interest after about age five hundred. I don't care what Rinpo warned you, he's an idiot, but there are limits, right, don't scare the washerwomen as we depend on 'em for clean robes!_ He knew the drill.

"Go on, jump, then!" he said, calmly.

"What?" said the teenage Abbot, shocked.

"Go on. Jump!" said Lu-Tze. "If life really _is_ that meaningless to you right now. Best solution. Although it'll make a mess of the Mandala, though".

There was a pause.

"_Well, obviously I didn't mean __**jump,**__ jump…" _and then the teenage boy straightened and stood upright. The petulance disappeared and the 630th Abbot re-asserted continuity.

"Thank you, Sweeper" he said, awkwardly. "In many ways this is _worse_ than being an infant. At least an infant does not have hormones and… urges… to contend with! They rather take over a body, I find."

"We understand, your reverence. And the little problem we discussed?"

"I'm restricting myself to three times a night with the pillow books, yes**(2)**. At this age they are addictive! Thank you for setting up the subscription. But to pick up your point. Should they ever build a glass clock again or otherwise threaten the flow of time, that is when we cease _watching_ and have to _act._ And the six of you _music with rocks in rules! Especially goth and emo! _The six of you are high-flyers who I'm sure have long careers ahead of you as field agents. It is here, in the Mandala Hall, that we so often get the first sign something is wrong. Lu-Tze?"

The Sweeper took the stage again. He led the group on to a different part of the bridge, overlapping what looked like unformed images on the floor where the sand had all mixed into a uniform grey-green-yellow.

"We discovered we can also focus right down to individual lives and see the shape of them. Everyone's got a mandala of their very own. Unique, see, like a fingerprint."

He called to a monk who was standing by a bank of small procastinators.

"Rambut? Run me Example One, would you?"

Rambut spun a couple of procastinators. The sand swirled up into the air, separated, and reformed. They settled into a relatively plain, simple, pattern.

"Mrs Enid Scroggins of thirty-two Dimwell Street, Ank-Morpork." said Lu-Tze. "An uncomplex life, Not a _simple_ one. For her it was full of quiet excitement and action. But to us…"

He waved an arm.

"Born, there. Grew up. First school. First kiss. Marriage. Three children. All clearly marked if you know where to look. That spike there is when her oldest daughter told her she was a lesbian. Blowed if I know what one of _those_ is…"

_There's an iconospread in Girls, Giggles and…"_

"Thank you, abbot. Perhaps as a strict Offlerian, what upset her was her daughter turning to worship of the Goddess Dike?"

Lu-Tze's face was a mask of inscrutability. The monks looked at each other, as if wondering if it was alright to snigger.

"First grandchild here. Widowhood here. And finally, last Thursday, her personal circle closed, age seventy-three."

He paused for a moment.

"An uncomplex life, led as well as she knew how. But now…. Rambut, Example Two!"

The monk below raised a thumbs up, consulted a scroll, and reset the proscatinators. The sand swirled up again and settled. Lu-Tze nodded.

"But that's not a cirle!" A monk objected." It's more of a…a…"

A Moebious strip." said the Abbot. _"Strip!" _snickered the teenage boy.

"Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh and Commander of the Watch. A downward spiral until late forties. The usual markers for school and early experience. A brief and sticky experience with Mavis Trouncer, here. Joins the Watch. Participates in the Glorious Revolution, here. This is where it gets interesting, as this is the point where the Moebious strip crosses itself. And there's a damn good reason for this, as at the time he was in the same place as the same person only separated by thirty years of age. Took some sorting out, did that one. Anyway. He grows older. Gets disillusioned. Gets drunk. Plummets to the pits at the very bottom of his wheel.." _He said "bottom!" _But the wheel that rolls you down , if it doesn't crush you under it, rises again and takes you up. Hear what I'm sayin? He meets Sybil Ramkin, here. Fights a dragon. Gets the respect, if not the trust, of Vetinari. Marries Sybil. Becomes richest man in town by marriage. Becomes Commander of a reborn Watch. Now here's another glip. We're still trying to work it out, but another Vimes buds off at this point and goes off into a different reality where the Klatchians invaded and conquered Ankh-Morpork. Gets killed. We had to put that bastard timeline straight as we didn't want it at all! You see it as the loop here, spinning off into nothing. We had to cut and cauterize. We think the spur was a defective Dis-Organiser with a malfunctioning timeline, but it's somewhere in the deep ocean now.

"Fathers a son. And on the day of the son's birth… it was the day we sorted out the Glass Clock. The fallout sent Vimes skidding off down this side of the Moebious to a point thirty years in his own past where he met himself going the other way. We couldn't have that and anyway we felt obligated, so we brought him back. But his wheel is no longer wheel-shaped, do you see? And it's still rising and taking him up further!"

Lu-Tze allowed this to sink in, answered a few questions, and went on to Example Three.

Again the sand swirled and reformed. There were gasps of consternation from the monks.

"The Wizard Rincewind." Lu-Tze said, indicating the multi-dimensional monstrosity that was before them, a thing that might once have had a plain two-dimensional circle somewhere in its distant ancestry. "Frankly, we gave up tryin' to understand this one a _long _time ago. With all his to-ing and fro-ing in time, we gave up even _trying_ to trace a logical path..."

They stood in silence and regarded it.

"We think it's a multi-dimensional spheroid tesseract." said the Abbot, in a lucid moment.

"Whatever it is, it's a bugger" said Lu-Tze, reflectively.

* * *

_There will be a second story on the theme of the Wheel. This is rare, I know, but it's too good to lose. This one is a card where you can truly let the imagination go wild – lots of potential. Watch this page!_

**(1) **As Joni Mitchell wrote "we're captives on the carousel of time; /we can't return, we can only look/ behind from where we came,/ and go round and round and round in the circle game…"

**(2) **To an Ankh-Morporkian, "pillow books" mean those very interesting connoisseurs' woodcuts imported from Agatea for the discerning gentleman. (or some cases, the discerning lady). To a Hubland monk who routinely looks for wisdom in faraway Ankh-Morpork, it means a subscription to _Girls, Giggles and Garters, _the city's premiere iconographic magazine containing artistic representations of young ladies in a state of undress. Lu-Tze reasoned a discreet subscription to GG&G would help the Abbot over those _difficult_ teenage years. And it also annoyed Rinpo, which was the main thing.


	12. The Wheel 2  The Bet's The Thing

10 Wheel of Fortune (part two) - the alternative tale.

**_The Wheel turns for everyone. ….the roulette wheel of F****a, a Goddess whose name is carefully not spoken lest she fail to appear. Gambling is a possibility here. _**

_Right. I've bitched elsewhere about other people using elements of my fanfic. Given that what we __**all**__ do is to pinch other people's ideas and settings – to be specific Terry Pratchett's – I'd have to be a hypocrite to object to this. In a way it's a compliment. But I have been known to get irritated when other authors pinch and use my ideas without crediting it to me or saying "thank you". The two or three of you on FanFic who've done this – well, you know who you are. _

_And so do I. _

_A character, in fact a Goddess, appears in this tale who is not my concept. I have borrowed her. She originates with fanfic writer Ulyenov, known on the L-Space wiki as "__**Doctor Whiteface**__". _

_For the use of your character "Janet", Doctor, I therefore humbly thank you. You had the inspired idea. This is merely my take on it. _

_Thanks also to Cliff Stark, who has told me lots of tales about how bookies make a profit and how betting __**really **__works. _

* * *

_**An episode from the early life of jobbing priestess Extremelia Mume, before the finger of Fate pointed at her and said "It is you!"**_

The bookies shop in Cable Street, in fact one of several run by Hergenian betting king Paddy O'Mighty under the _**Paddy: a Powerful Good Bet! **_name**(1), **was doing good business that Saturday afternoon.

Extremelia sat in the cashier's booth behind the thick iron bars, underneath the framed scroll that proclaimed Paddy to be a fully paid-up member of the Gamblers' Guild and that therefore any trade conducted on the premises was strictly under Guild law and custom. Paddy also paid a Thieves' Guild premium and had a cover policy against unlicenced theft with the Guild of Assassins. Even though on a good day thousands of dollars crossed the counter – all of it coming inwards with a carefully calculated and much smaller part of it going out again – it was possibly one of the safest jobs in town. Any unlicenced thief trying to rob the premises would be an unlicenced thief who was tired of life three times over. (Under the shrewd leadership of Scrote Jones, the Gamblers Guild could now afford to hire its own muscle as enforcers: the Dealers and Croupiers**(2)**were on hand to maintain order and good conduct, and to go round to the homes of those who had defaulted or otherwise welshed on failed bets, to arrange suitable repayment terms as between gentlemen.)

Besides, Paddy was a big man who had worked on building sites for twenty years before having his flash of epiphany. After twenty years of watching fellow labourers and tradesmen trying to beat the odds, largely failing and remaining poor, and witnessing fellow expat Hergenians betting with hope and their hearts and staying poor, he had set about studying the form, going to evening maths classes mainly for lessons in probability theory, and had made the realisation.

_**The only people to get rich at betting are the bookies. **_

He had therefore sunk twenty years of meticulous savings into his first bookies' shop. This coincided with Gamblers' Guild president Scrote Jones rising to lead what had hitherto been one of the poorest and most despised Guilds in the City. Perhaps learning from the way Havelock Vetinari ran the City, Scrote too had had an epiphany. He had realised that for gambling to work and for it to have truly mass appeal, it had to be seen to be fair and to run to clearly understood, out-in-the-open rules with no hidden clauses or small print. This was in a city where troll crimelord Chrysophrase ran his own casino, and betting operation to his own rules, which were on clear display, written in red ink on red paper and illuminated by a red lamp, and you cannot make dem more accessible then dat, can you! **(3)**

Chrysophrase also sponsored the ultra-violent sport of troll-boxing, upon which people were prepared to stake large amounts of money, _**even though everyone knew Chrysophrase was the bout promoter.(4) **_Scrote Jones reasoned from this that there was a huge appetite for gambling in the city. And incredibly enough, the Gamblers' Guild, disdaining amateur gamblers, was getting none of the benefits. Scrote changed all this, encouraging men like Paddy to open up under Guild auspices, and opening a public casino of the Guild's own on Guild premises. The result was that the Gamblers were now steadily accumulating licence fees, Guild tax, cash profits and percentages, and were rising up the ladder in terms of both wealth and prestige. They were also very carefully paying over a set percentage of this to the City in tax, a factor which made Vetinari very relaxed about the upsurge in gambling around the City.

Extremalia had left seminary feeling excited about her calling as a Priestess. She was aware that to thrive, she needed not only generalised faith in the Gods as a collective entity, but a Unique Selling Point to draw crowds into her own temple.

Her newly-issued dog collar still sharp and rough around her throat, she had retired with a copy of Koomi of Swale's _**Liber Ego Video Deorum**.__**(5)**_

Looking down the lists of Goddesses, she found what she sought near the bottom of the list. _Bingo. Everyone has a kitchen? Everyone has kitchen utensils? And everyone's kitchen drawer gets jammed now and again, because that odd-shaped thing that nobody can remember the purpose of, and which doesn't fit however you try, has jammed it all closed. Anoia is as universal as any deity you can find!_

She tried the name for size.

"Anoia. Anoia". It felt right. Three sliding syllables. Four vowels and a consonant.

She fancied she could hear an odd echo in the seminary library. In the distance she could hear the librarian muttering because his desk drawer had just jammed closed, the one with all his date stamps in it. She smiled.

Extemelia Mume had found her Goddess.

And now, ten years on, she was still doing four days a week in Paddy's bookies, three to pay the rent on the Temple upstairs and one for some actual cash. She alternated this with evening work pulling pints in the White Swan down the street, a pub known inevitably as The Mucky Duck. She'd never thought it would come to this, but she doggedly worked on, processing bets by day, paying out once the clacks brought the results in (Paddy had paid dearly for a clacks account, but he got the racing results first and this pulled in the punters. If they doubted his word, they could check it in the **_Times Pink Sporting Final _**later in the day, which was held to be official, and the final arbiter of all disputes.)

And, cashing up after the shop closed, Paddy would often say

"Tremmie, you're a little bloody wonder, so y'are! The punters come in because they can't believe a priestess works for me, and you bein' there keeps down the bad language and unseemly behaviour in the shop, and the wonder of it is, you get on with them!"

She had smiled. She had started to see the regulars in the shop as her parish, and it was surprisingly easy to be a pastoral priestess from behind the bar or inside the cashier's cage. Some of them even came to her Octeday services, held in the front room of the upstairs flat that had her living space in the room behind. Even Paddy himself, and Mrs O'Mighty, although they were old-time Druidic by persuasion, sometimes attended. Drinkers from the Duck, when they were Octeday-sober and feeling in need of spiritual sustenance, sometimes swelled the numbers. So there was no shortage of a congregation, even if they were all dirt-poor and the collection plate sometimes saw only elims and mites and farthings.

But sometimes… she'd find dollar coins, about the same value as three day's cashiers' pay, in the offertory box. She suspected she knew how they got there, but knew she could never ask. Paddy would always say, once she came downstairs to the bookies, that it was a shame and a pity that he couldn't give her the upstairs for free, but he rented the whole building, you follow, and he had to pay the rent on all of it. So sub-letting was sound business sense, you follow? And Paddy would try to look innocent, and Extremelia would pretend not to notice and say "I appreciate that, Paddy" and get on with the job. And just for a second he would look shifty, and then he'd turn and get on with working out the odds in such a way that they were more favourable to the punter than the competition would _dream _of offering, while still ensuring his rake would guarantee him a good profit on the day.**(6) **She would watch, learning about probability maths by default, and storing up ideas for the future.

_People go to the bookies religiously. They avoid churches equally religiously. Therefore it follows on that if there was a way to mix religion and gambling, the priestess who got the formula right would be made for life. And for the greater glory of her patron Goddess, obviously. _

She held this thought and focused on looking after her flock, dispensing not religious homilies but good advice if ever a drinker or a punter had a tale of woe to tell. As she assured Reg the publican at the Duck, they could see her as a sort of industrial chaplain.

She sighed a deep sigh. People had _preconceptions_ about what a priestess should look like. She should either be thin, tall, greyhaired, rake-thin and austere, a sporty type who was plain as a pancake but hearty, or else a fat jolly woman with an addiction to chocolate, who laughed a lot.**(7)**

Extremelia was in her early thirties. Single, sandy-hair cut into a respectable mumsy style, looking a little bit mumsy and matronly although she'd never had children. _Never had… you know… either, although a lot of the men in the pub and the bookies tell me I've got quite a nice buxom figure. Perhaps the dog collar puts them off. Or I've put it off, for the sake of establishing a career. __**(8)**_

Other members of the Council of Churches, Temples, Sacred Groves and Big Ominous Rocks tended to look aghast at a member doing menial jobs to get by. It had been pointed out to Extremelia that there was a charitable trust that had been set up to ensure every bona fide priest could draw some sort of stipend, to _prevent _their having to do manual labour.

"No." she had said, firmly. "I _like_ what I do." she said, thinking of the bookies' customers and drinkers in the duck with the usual mixture of exasperation and fondness.

The argument had dragged on for months of Council meetings. Then one day, Hughnon Ridcully, the High Priest, had stepped into the shop, in a sober tweed suit rather than the High Priest's vestments, to lay a bet on the Quirm $100. She was surprised. She knew he was a man from an old time huntin', fishin', shootin' and sportin' family. But he usually sent a junior deacon in to lay his bets.

"Wouldn't you feel better if you had enough of an income to save you havin' to do this, m'dear?" he had asked. "Devote all your time to the service of yer Goddess?"

"And become some sort of hermit?" she had asked. "I'm among the people here. If they won't care to go to where the priest is, then the priest has to go to them and listen to them. The place for a pulpit is in the temple on Octeday, your Grace. The rest of the week, I can do my pastoral work from in here or behind the bar at the Duck!"

Ridcully laid his bet and tipped his hat to her. He smiled.

"Well, that's _me_ told, then!" he said. "Good luck to you, m'dear!" He picked up his betting slip, smiled at the sign that said "NO WIZARDS! NO WITCHES! AND NO BLOODY PSYCHICS EITHER!**(9)**", and left.

In some indefinable way, Extremelia wondered if she'd made an ally.

Life went on like this for some years, with Anoia maintaining a foothold in Ankh-Morpork, neither climbing nor falling, and her priestess just about maintaining a baseline standard of living.

Then Horace started coming into the shop. She took his money as she took the others', with a friendly smile and a thank you. But Horace, in appearance an unprepossessing plump and balding man, was different.

He consistently won, small but not spectacular sums. Paddy watched him closely, wondering if some sort of scam was happening. He'd heard the Thieves' Guild now taught course modules in deception, grift, and bunco studies. But week after week, Horace came in, laid some modest sum like $5, and walked out with four or five times that. Or more.

"It isn't bloody well natural." said Paddy. "But the fellow must be on the level. Or he'd be trying to take me for thousands otherwise. Why waste time with piddling little sums? Ah well, your man's just on a streak of … L-word." (Gamblers and reformed vampires both had an unspeakable word.)

"It'll wear off eventually."

But it didn't. Horace became a regular visitor, and even started to get friendly with Extremelia. Paddy approved of this, hoping she'd wheedle out of him how it was done and whether he was taking Paddy for a ride. He began attending the Temple of Anoia, offering a tithe of his winnings to the Goddess in return for her munificent bounty. She began to feel she was doing something other then just scraping by, but firmly reminded herself not to rely on the money, which was bound to dry up as quickly as it had come.

"Why thank Anoia?" Extremelia asked, playing devil's advocate. "Surely there's another Goddess…"

Horace quickly laid a finger to her lips.

"We don't mention _her_ name, miss!" he said, urgently. "I mean, you're an associate Guild member, you have to be!"

She cursed herself. Mentioning a certain Name was a Gambler's Guild taboo and incurred sanctions. And she'd had to join, as an associate member, to be able to work in gambling.

Horace continued his thought. "So if you can't mention or thank or even think about Her, miss, you still have to honour the Gods in general terms. And your temple's most convenient for the bookies'!"

And so it was for a few more months. Extremelia found herself getting fonder of the absurd, plump little man, who was always fussily dressed and slightly out of breath. He carried on visiting Paddy's three or four times a week, staking modest sums and always winning. He attended Temple and paid to bend small ritual spatulas and fishforks in Anoia's honour. Extremelia even let herself be taken to dinner by him. She also learnt that Paddy's wasn't the only bookies he plagued by continually winning. He also patronised several other turf accountants, seemingly taking scrupulous care not to do any more than lay a single modest bet of five or ten dollars, often on an unlikely prospect or a 33-1 outsider. Extremelia had learnt that a rank outsider on 33-1 or even 50-1 or higher will win a race on average once every day, more often than she would have thought. But with the racing card offering two or three hundred races across nine or ten tracks – not to mention the dogs and the dragons**(10)** – finding that rare winning outsider was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Yet Horace seemed to have no trouble. He also attended live betting at the tracks.

But he still wouldn't tell her how he did it, preferring to mumble a "perhaps some other time, miss" at her.

She returned to work, vexed by it all.

And then one day, after a successful bet, Horace was ritually bending a votive spatula in homage and thanks to Anoia. Extremelia led him through the Ritual of Distortion, and as the last "Amen!" faded, she sat and looked at him critically.

"Horace" she said. "I really need to know how you're doing it. If nothing else, there are three bookies who would just love to have a reason to get the Dealers and Croupiers onto you, as you must have taken them all for _thousands_ by now. If they've got even the slightest reason to think you're scamming them, you're a dead man walking, and I don't want that."

She paused, and added

"As your spiritual advisor and priestess, I really don't want that. But even Paddy… well, he may be fundamentally a good man, and hard to anger, and in his way a generous man, but I've seen his fists clench whenever you walk into the shop. That reminds you that Paddy O'Mighty is also a _big_ man. You've broken the fundamental rule, Horace. The punter is not meant to win. The punter does not take the bookie for hard cash, time and time and time again. And if the Guild puts the Nine of Swords**(11)** on you, you _know _the Watch are going to treat it as a case of suicide twice over?"

Horace sighed and slumped.

"I know, miss. I got the card this morning. In the post. I'm going to be leaving Ankh-Morpork in the next day or two. Billy Slopes and Fred Dunn's have both barred me because I win too often. Paddy's got that look in his eye that says I'm barred from here next. Most of the oncourse bookies at the Racecourse won't take my bets any more and I'm barred from the tote. So there'll be nothing for me in this town no more. Betting is my life!"

Extremelia looked at the little man with sympathy, resigned to losing both him and the regular extra dollars in the offertory. _Ah well, it couldn't last for ever. _

"Where will you go?" she asked.

"Brindisi, at least first, miss." Horace said. "Work my way out Widdershins to Genua and then take the boat to Fourecks. I hear they race emus and camels there!"

She made them both a cup of tea, and Horace sighed.

"Since I'll be going soon, it won't make no difference if I tell you everything. But this is in confidence, right?"

"Horace" she said, "I'm a priestess. Consider this a confessional."

And Horace told her everything.

A not-very-successful interior decorator and amateur punter, he had got ridiculously drunk the previous Hogswatch after his wife left him, fed up with his betting compulsion. He had woken up unwillingly the next morning, to find a Presence in his room. A thin and unhealthy deity in a soiled tunic, wearing a skewed laurel wreath, was standing by the bed. Horace, by degrees, realised that after an evening in the company of the god Bibulous, he was now paying for it with a personal visit from the god Bilious, patron deity of hangovers. In between bouts of retching and groaning, Bilious had explained that every quality has its opposite, right? And if there is a God of Getting Drunk, then there must be a God of Hangovers. I'm it, the name's Bilious.

"Every God? Every quality?" Horace had groaned through a dry mouth that tasted like a parrot's cage.

"Must be or I wouldn't be here." the God had shrugged. "Anyway, you've got the eyes that feel like red-hot marbles, the pounding headache, the dizziness, the mouth that feels like the cat's crapped in it…. My work here is done, I think."

And he disappeared and Horace fell groaning into his bed.

A few days later, Horace gave his visitation from the God some serious creative thought.

_Every God? Every quality?_

As a Gambler, he thought of The Lady. If you evoked her by name, she refused to come. Attempts by diehard gamblers to compel her had led to awful appointments with Fate and Destiny, who had turned up to explain it doesn't work that way, gentlemen. If you called her, she refused to attend. Being capricious, of course, she might turn up once in a blue moon, just to keep people hoping and believing, but mainly for her own amusement… but bad luck(_there, I've said it!)_ usually attended those who called on her.

Horace's brain raced on.

Those secretive, furtive, experiments with a roulette wheel that led to the Chapel of the Gamblers' Guild being utterly destroyed . They were attempting to coerce a Goddess of Good Luck, call her Fortuna, to be present and aid them. But all they got was bad luck.

Now let's turn that idea on its head, take it a stage further. You've got Bibulous, God of Alcohol, and his opposite Bilious, the _Oh-God!_ of hangovers. One necessarily entails the other, right?

So what of The Lady of good Luck (that's a given – nobody wants the other sort, but it's all we seem to actually get) _also_ has her opposite. Let's call her… Ydal? Kcul… Kaycull. Anutrof? No, don't call her yet, give her a working name. Call her _Janet_, for now, that's safe enough.

_What happens if you deliberately, cold-bloodedly and knowingly call on the name of Janet, goddess of bad luck? _

The idea was giddying and exciting. Horace scraped together his last few coins and raced to a nearby bookies – a branch of Billy Slopes**(12)** – to lay a multiplier. He fervently addressed silent prayers to Ydal, Kaycull, Anutrof, Janet, the Goddess of bad luck, as he raced through the streets.

He heard a crash from behind him. Turning, he saw a chimney stack had crashed into the icy street a few feet behind him.

"That was lucky, mate!" a passer-by said. "Could have swore it was going to hit you!"

Fired with excitement, Horace ran into the bookies and passed his last few pence over the counter on the first stage of a multiplier. This is a five-step bet where the winnings on one step become the stake on the next. This can sometimes win lunatic sums of money, but generally the bookie cleans up as the odds on five successive bets winning are usually unfeasible.

He stood in an agony of waiting as first one, then the second, then the third, came in as winners. By the fifth he was two thousand dollars richer on a seventy-five pence stake. Billy Slopes himself paid the cash over.

"Reckon you was due a streak of luck, eh, Horace?" he said, benevolently, knowing that in the hands of a gambling addict, he was very soon going to see it back again, so why worry?

"So what happened next?" Extremelia asked, gently and compassionately.

"You've seen it, miss. I started doing the circuit of all the bookies in town, including the racecourse and the Tote, and I was always careful not to lay seriously big money or to draw too much attention to myself. No more than one bet in each shop every day, and that for smallish stakes. I knew it would all build up over time, see, and the bet's the thing.

"Oh, it would have been so easy to lay a thousand dollars down on a fifty-to-one, but that way, you get attention. Thieves Guild, for instance. Besides, I dint want to get greedy. A winning bet like that would have broke Paddy, and he's a good man. 'Sides, it'd have closed his bookies and put people like you out of work, and I dint want that on my conscience. You find it hard to make ends meet as it is."

She nodded. Horace was a good, honest, man. Clever and sensible, too.

"So you went for a nice steady trickle. No more than fifty dollars winnings in each of three or four bookies, so that's a continual two hundred dollars a day…" _And I'm holding down two jobs, running a church and keeping myself fed and clothed and housed on twelve dollars a week. And that's in a good week. _

"What do you spend it on?"

"Well, when I knew I was onto a good thing, I packed in the decorating. Five dollars a week. Huh. I won't be sorry never to see a roll of wallpaper or a paintbrush again! I splashed out, miss. Better place to live, better clothes, better food…"

He patted his belly ruefully.

"_Too much_ better food and drink. Some in the bank for a rainy day. Give some away. I can afford it. The bet's the thing!"

And six months further on, here you are now. Banned from the bookies for being too successful and about to leave town."

"Change my name and my appearance, miss. There are racecourses everywhere." He perked up and gave her an optimistic smile.

She nodded.

"Write to me, Horace. I'd appreciate that. But.. one last question. Why call the ..goddess… Janet?"

"That was my ex-wife's name, miss. She were nothing more nor bad luck to me!"

Extremelia smiled and they left the Temple together. Paddy was waiting at the foot of the stairs. The big bookie cleared his throat, deferentially.

"Horace? I'm sorry to have to say this, I personally like you and you've been a good customer, but…."

And Extremelia heard nothing more about or from Horace, not even a letter. But she remembered his last cheerful words to her, as he had philosophically walked away:

"Always remember, miss, the bet's the thing. It could be you next time!"

And then, three weeks on, constable Haddock of the Watch had come in, off-duty, to lay a bet on the Pseudopolis Steeplechase. Passing over his stake money, he had remarked

"Shame about Horace Spinnister, wasn't it, miss?"

Something in the tone of his voice alerted her.

"Oh. What happened to him?"

Haddock looked grave.

It happened shortly after his last visit to her. Horace's uncanny ability to win bets had caused certain people to take an interest in him. Coming out of the coach station having paid for a luxury ticket to Brindisi, and intending to leave the next day (nobody ignores the Dealers when they deal you the Nine of Swords), he had been accosted by two henchtrolls.

Troll crimelord Chrysoprase had heard of the man with the uncanny ability to get bets right. He wanted Horace on his payroll. But on hearing the rumbling voice

"Mr Chrysoprase wants to speak to you!"

Horace had panicked and run blindly away. Straight into the path of a laden cart that was rumbling inexorably towards him.

"It's a funny thing, miss. His last words were to the ex-wife who walked out on him at Hogswatch. He called "Janet!" twice, as if he wanted to see her one last time before he died. Then the wagon rolled over him, I'm afraid."

"I see" Extremelia whispered.

_Just sometimes, even when you call her, the Lady appears, out of amusement or malice or whim. It's very nearly a million to one chance. But sometimes it happens. For Ydal, Kaycull, Anutrof – or Janet – as much as for her sister. And Haddock had glimpsed the strangeness of a green-haired red-eyed woman on the street where Horace Spinnister died. _

Haddock smiled at her. "It's not all bad news, miss. Horace left a will. He spent a lot of cash, but he made it clear that what's left over is yours. For the Church."

Extremelia banked the money: only two or three thousand dollars, but it would go to her dream, of building a Temple fit for Anoia. To do it _properly_, though, she'd need another ten thousand, probably more. But Horace had allowed her to make a start. Sitting in a coffeeshop after having recited an Anoian funeral service over his grave at Small Gods, she let her eyes slide over a brief note in the Times. It was about Vetinari having appointed an unknown called Moist von Lipwig to be Postmaster General….

* * *

**(1) **In Great Britain, one of the biggest bookies' chains is the Irish-owned Paddy Powers.

**(2) **The Dealers are dapper men in tuxedos who have amazing manual dexterity and can entertain you with amazing card tricks. Right up until the moment they start breaking your fingers, one by one, as they remind you that you owe the casino ten thousand dollars and climbing, friend. The Croupiers are in the main hard-faced women who, while they can deal the cards for blackjack and set the ball running on the roulette wheel with the best of them, tend to be drawn from the ranks of lady wrestlers, boxers and martial arts experts. Scrote Jones has interviewed and selected them with care, and they handle those tricky moments in the life of any casino, such as the maths teacher suspected of card-counting, the man standing too close to the roulette wheel who, when shaken down, is discovered to have powerful magnets in his pockets, or the man in a game of Cripple Mr Onion who has extra aces up his sleeves and sudden amnesia as to how they got there. They also provide mobile security to Guild members running off-site operations, ie, Paddy's bookies.

**(3) **_Break der bank and I break your legs! Dat only to begin wit'!_

**(4) **For some reason, the sight of two enormous trolls battering each other across a specially reinforced ring was a popular one in Ankh-Morpork.

**(5) **This indispensable guide, rather like** Crockford's Clerical Directory, **is re-issued every year as old gods die and dwindle and newer, more ambitious, gods arise and ascend the hierarchy. It is indispensable to priests. The current edition has a cautious farewell to Nuggan, who is missing, presumed Small God, and welcomes Pedestriana to the Dunmanifestin family. It also notes the steady and resolute rise of Anoia, and notes this ties into the related worship of Cephut, God of Cutlery.

**(6) **Take a six horse race. The probability that_**one**_of those six horses will win and one will come second is 100%, right? So therefore when you add together the odds quoted on each individual horse they should all sum to 1.0 or 1/1, right?

Well… wrong. It's more likely going to be 0.89. or perhaps 0.92 on a good day. _You_ are still betting on a basis of 1.0 probability. The missing fraction is called the bookie's rake and over time is a nice, steady, little earner that guarantees a consistent profit.

And if all six horses break a leg, fail to finish, or go on strike, the race is voided and all stakes are returned.

**(7) **. OK. I do mean Dawn French in _**The Vicar of Dibley**_. A real lady minister I was at university with (Methodist) is still slim, blonde, and strikingly attractive. She cannot stand that show for professional reasons.

**(8)**A reader of my earlier Extremelia story told me she could see actress Fay Ripley in the role. Damn it, she was right. Fay's stock-in-trade of respectable but slightly confused women, together with her" not-bad-I-suppose-for-my-age" figure, would fit the character.

**(9) **Because wizards try to cheat, that's why. Look at that "winning slip" carefully. It is likely to be a piece of toilet paper put under a glamour. In Ankh-Morpork, the regulation barring psychics from betting shops is _necessary_. They've _heard_ about the idea that a psychic should never try to profit personally from their abilities. They think everyone's entitled to an opinion, they suppose…

**(10) **Ankh-Morpork has known for a long time about recreational betting on the performance of horses and greyhounds. Racing dragons are a new phenomena, and the bets tend to be on whether the dragon can get to the finishing line before exploding. Lady Sybil Ramkin is on the case, however, and the days of racing dragons may well be numbered.

**(11) **You know the truism/cliché about Death in the Tarot not meaning literal death? That is true, but it begs the question of which card **does**. And while the suit card the Nine of Swords has several interpretations (all bad) , one of them is sudden and violent death. The classic picture on the card is unambiguous – a corpse floating face-down in the river with nine blades sticking out of its back. The Dealers and Croupiers, the Gamblers' Guild enforcers, have been known to pass a mark the nine of Swords, as a last warning. Or to leave it nearby the body…

**(12) **William Hills, in Great Britain, are a well known firm of turf acountants.


	13. Strength   Fortitude

11 or 8 Strength / Fortitude

_A young woman, often portrayed as blonde or red-haired, accompanies a fully grown lion. Sometimes she walks with it, sometimes she is portrayed as riding it. (You would not want to know what she is doing to it in Aleistar Crowley's Thoth deck.) It is clear that a battle of wills has taken place and – temporarily at least – Beauty has overcome the Beast. _

__

_

* * *

_

The vet had clearly been shaken up after his duty visit to the Zoo.

He had dosed the zebras without a qualm. His affinity with horses and horse-like animals was clearly apparent: she and the escorting golems had had little to do in his support, both with the zebras and with Unpronouncziwicz's Horse**(1)**.

Problems had arisen, however, with the Lancre Hill Ponies**(2)**, who were truculent beasts and not in the mood to be medicated to. They had chased the vet across the paddock, teeth champing and mouths foaming, until she had called a halt to it and sent in the golems to subdue them.

The Zoo Trust had acquired the ponies while she had been away dealing with other matters. She had agreed on her return that they were a rare species and worth acquiring in their own right. But the shifty-looking dwarf who had sold them to the Zoo on the basis that they were a gentle and tolerant animal well suited for the kiddies to ride in the Petting Zoo was now the subject of pointed inquiries from the Guild of Assassins, who owned a controlling interest in the Zoo. In the absence of a city Trading Standards Office, the Assassins intended to have a quiet word with him about _selling as described_ and _fit for the purpose_.

In the Zoo office, she politely commiserated with Doctor Folsom about the loss of his trouser seat, and assured him he could put replacements on his invoice. Would he like a cup of soothing _rooibuis_ tea?

And then a keeper was tapping her on the shoulder and whispering something into her ear. She listened, nodded, and apologised to the vet, as there was an emergency with the lions that needed her expertise. The vet expressed the thought that he couldn't help her _there__**(**_**3)**, miss, and better you than me. She smiled, and again excused herself.

She looked down into the enclosure.

"The Mother Rejected These Cubs. We Have Succeeded In Persuading Another Recent Mother, Whose Cubs Were Stillborn, To Become Foster Mother. But She Absolutely Refuses To Take This One."

A single lion cub, looking as lost and bewildered and unhappy as any unloved kitten, aimlessly scrabbled its feet in the bottom of the basket. There was something about the _eyes…_

_On the veldt, a lion with eye problems is a crippled lion. It cannot co-ordinate to take its prey. It can contribute nothing to the pride. It becomes a liability. It will starve, or else be taken by natives looking for the pelt and the mane to turn into marks of warrior status. The mother recognises this at birth, and paradoxically to reject or kill it now becomes a kindness to one who will not thrive. _

Born and brought up in Howondaland, she recognised this and knew it instinctively. A zoologist by inclination and an Assassin by trade, she thought of one or two little preparations she carried with her. A drip of a certain essence on the end of a blowpipe dart, pricked into the skin, would end this little creature's suffering. She had done as much for animals in mortal pain in the past, and watched them slip painlessly away. But this was not Howondaland. And the animal was not in physical pain, only bewildered by rejection.

And then one of the creature's startlingly blue eyes met hers. Only one, given its condition, but one was enough. She closed the pouch on her Assassin's equipment belt. It wasn't just twelve-year old student Assassins who could be moved by a helpless baby animal.

"You are coming home with me, little fellow!" she said, in a language that was not Morporkian. She packed a small blanket into a transporter box and transferred the animal. It nestled into the arms of an unfamiliar species not meant to nurture lion cubs, made a mewl of alarm for a second, then recognised it was up against the warmth of a friendly body, listening to a strong slow reassuring heartbeat. The lion cub settled and snuggled.

She smiled. She could go back to the Guild now and still have an hour before her first class of the day. Time enough to get the new arrival settled.

* * *

Mr Wimvoe, Assassins' Guild Bursar, looked again at the questionable invoice that his financial assistant, Mr Blakeney, had just sent to him for querying.

At first glance it was a routine bill for services from Mr Ronnie Soak, the milkman, who prided himself on meeting any dairy-related order.

_For provision of: three thousand pints cow's milk. AM$250 00.5 per pint. _

_Six thousand yoghurts, made from cow's milk. AM$120._

Well, yes. But this was all routine mass catering stuff to serve the School's catering budget. But what was this item towards the bottom of the list, hidden away there….

_For special provision of 4 gallons' fresh lioness' milk. AM$136 AM$4.00 per pint. _

Mr Wimvoe sighed. He blinked and reached for the Dried Frog Pills. It was going to be a long day…

"I'd try Miss Smith-Rhodes at the Animal Management Unit, sir" said Mr Blakeney, helpfully. "I've heard a couple of interesting rumours…"

* * *

Johanna Smith-Rhodes, like many another Assassin resident at the guild, kept pets. In most cases these were dogs, mainly stylish and sleek hunting dogs, and the Guild never had a problem with this. While Johanna had been promised a couple of puppies from her uncle, the Howandalandian Ambassador, owing to an unplanned mating between two dogs belonging to the security detail at the Embassy and a consequent predicted need to dispose of unwanted puppies to good homes, this would still be a month or two in the future. Johanna felt there would be more than enough room, temporarily, for three animals, and raising two puppies alongside a rejected lion cub might prove to be an interesting experiment on animal psychology.

Besides, it was only temporary. Even Johanna could see that a fully grown lion would not be a practical pet in the close confines of the Guild school. You could only domesticate a lion to a certain value of "domesticated", and it would be asking a lot of one to remain stable and even-tempered when in among over two thousand humans.

But a cub…

She smiled, and poured some of the _special _milk, carefully, into a babies' bottle.

_What was it with Ronnie Soak? He hadn't needed to be asked, he'd just added it to the delivery. Wimvoe had insisted it was paid for, but ag, she was a proven Assassin with contract money in the bank… _a question was niggling at her mind as she fed the cub. She had not the slightest doubt, knowing Soak, that it was lioness' milk. It could be tested at the Zoo or the AMU, for one thing, and the milkman knew this. _But where does he get it from? _

She looked down at the lion cub with a compassionate eye. Which was one eye more than it could focus back at her. _The poor thing's cross-eyed. He would not last five minutes on the veldt. And he looks so much like Uncle Klarenz…_ She felt guilty for laughing, but she laughed anyway.

* * *

And Klarenz the cub grew. He grew too big for the baby-sling Johanna had improvised, to carry him to classes in the early days. Now, he padded obediently at her side, a way opening for them in the bedlam of between-classes rushes, the girl students delighted and enthralled, the boys more cautious, but saying things like "Cool, miss!". And Lord Downey shaking his head in disbelief as a growing male lion padded proudly in the corridors alongside his mistress, centre of attention wherever he went, the hunting dogs belonging to other Assassins slinking aside with pretended nonchalance or getting out of the way altogether in response to urgent genetic prompts.

At night he slept on or next to her bed, the atmosphere in the bedroom becoming decidedly Howondalandian. Johanna dealt with the growing litter-tray problem by arrangement with her colleague Davinia Bellamy, who carefully bagged and sealed the contents of the full tray to spread over her prized flowerbeds and gardens. Davinia, the school botany mistress and close colleague, explained that it kept other animals off her plants – if the average domestic moggie smells lion-shit, it will think the lion is nearby and will therefore avoid the area, rather than become lion-shit itself. Johana, who knew farmers back Home used similar tactics to ward off meercats and chimpanzees, nodded appreciatively.

And then the puppies arrived. Two Rhodesian Ridgebacks, progeny of the animals used for night security at the Embassy. Klarenz sniffed them curiously, then decided they were uninteresting things and left them alone.

And for a while, lion and puppies grew together, an amicable inter-species pack. Klarenz, now eight months old and beginning his first mature mane, was de facto pack leader. Johanna looked at him. She knew a decision was near. Besides, Downey had called her to the office and given her what was as near as he could manage to an ultimatum. She understood: if a lion belonging to a teacher were to eat a pupil, it would be bad for School enrolment. _Oh, but so good for discipline! _

But what _really_ decided her was that the puppies were growing. She remembered Ridgebacks were also called lion-dogs and that they'd originally been bred to tire and run down a full-grown lions.

And that lately, she'd observed signs that as all three creatures grew, they were getting _less_ friendly towards each other, and their respective genetic conditioning was taking over. Lion and lion dogs. Won't work, Johanna. You're asking too much of them.

_And it was only meant to be temporary, to give Klarenz what that Fourecksian Doctor Berwin described as a "fair go"…_

And none of them were _small _creatures. She tried to visualise her rooms wrecked by the inevitable inter-species fight.

Then, sadly, she took Klarenz on his final trip out of the Guild.

Back at the Zoo, an enclosure had been prepared with a better shelter than usual. Fresh meat, the best, had been laid out for him to eat. In the future there would be other lions to try to socialise him with,and the tantalising scent of lioness in heat, that would soon have its own significance.

But she still felt a heel to lead him into the enclosure and then to walk out alone. And to walk away.

"I'm sorry, Klarenz" she whispered, through growing tears. "I will see you every day I'm here. That's a promise. Trust me, this is for the best. You're a big boy, now!"

But Klarenz would not forget her. Ever. And she would not forget him. The bond had been made.

* * *

1 **(1) **A species of pony native to Central Agatea, "discovered" by Zlobenian zoologist Doktor Antonz Unpronouncziwicz.

2 **(2) **Described as being akin, in shape, size and general disposition, to a barrel of number one powder with a leg at each corner, the Lancre Hill Pony is a bloody-minded creature once used to tow battle chariots. A herd of Lancres can make a mountain tiger decide it isn't that hungry yet, and even Feegles approach them cautiously.

3 **(3) **"Doughnut Jimmy" Folsom's default position on all veterinarian work, regardless of species, was to stick a thermometer up its bottom first to give himself some thinking time. Even he had thought twice about this when confronted with the Zoo's lions and tigers for the first time.


	14. The Hanged Man

12 The Hanged Man

_A man hangs upside-down from a gallows, but secured by one ankle. He is in no apparent pain or discomfort and appears resigned to his fate. In some decks he is playing a flute as if in defiance of his degraded state and the sentence upon him. One or both pockets may be inverted and their contents, usually depicted as cash or jewels, are falling out, to be lost. _

_If you count the Fool, this is the thirteenth card of the Major Arcana. (If you discount the un-numbered Fool and count from the Magician, card thirteen is Death, so thirteen gets you both ways.) _

_Esoterically, think of Christ on the Cross, or Odin tied to the World Tree, where after nine days and nights, in exchange for an eye he was granted wisdom._

_His card is a period of necessary restriction of any or all kinds. A short illness, maybe; a prison sentence; more money going out than is coming in; loss of job or liberty; a period of slowdown or complete halt, where bad things are happening and you have to put up with them because there is no alternative. But a period of seeming stagnation might result in an insight, a gleam of new wisdom, that lights up the way…_

_

* * *

_

Moist von Lipwig mooched aimlessly around among the tents and stalls of the Sheepsbridge Sheep Fair. Once upon a time he would have relished the atmosphere on a day like this. He would have taken his time, watching and sorting out the various stalls and challenges into the two categories of "straight" and "bent", the amateurs setting up for the day to raise honest money for, say, the Shepherds' Benevolent Fund, set against the professional bunco-artists who flocked to a midway like this just to make themselves rich. Moist would then have arranged a series of educative experiences for the bunco-artists, partly to show them a few tricks and mainly to keep his own hand in, in a way he would not feel guilty about afterwards. They were fellow professionals, after all: there to con the yokels, they couldn't complain if a master conman shook them down in their turn.

But he sighed. That young witch in the green dress and absurdly overlarge boots had clocked him straight away, and was discreetly following him with a "don't you dare think of scamming my people!" expression in her eyes. She seemed respected by her people, despite her age, and the old saying "never offend a witch!" burst urgently back to mind.

_And always keep Adora on side, too…._

He was there, officially, to advise the local post office on handling ingoing and outgoing mail – the people out there in the sticks had hitherto had a bit of a casual attitude towards the mail, as they saw so little of it. There was also the vexing question of the clacks – the locals had a real opposition to digging up their beloved Chalk to make any permanent structures of any sort of all, as their gently rolling hills, the foothills of the Ramtops, were held to be inviolable in perpetuity to anyone bringing in spades and building materials. Yet somehow, the Clacks needed to be routed over these hills out to the Turnwise coast. Moist sighed. He just _knew_ the young witch would be there in any negotiations with local worthies, such as the Baron, who by all accounts was all for a clacks connection. And what had they said about her in the pub last night: _She's Granny Aching's grandchild, alright. And the Baron knows it. Should have seen the way Granny dealt with the old baron! Ah, the old stories find a new way of tellin' themselves…_

He sighed. Vetinari wants the clacks coming out here. That young witch evidently doesn't. And her grandmother was by all accounts a Force round here. That respect's settling on the new girl. Whichever way it goes, I'm in trouble.

_Hung if you do, hung if you don't…_

He paused to admire some sheep in a pen, and got into talk with the shepherd.

_Life was so much simpler when you were Alfred Spangler…_

..and then you got hung. And suddenly, life was not yours any more. In fact, a life had ended with the execution of Albert. His freedom had evaporated. He was now tied to the Post Office, the Royal Bank, and the city by subtle chains forged by Vetinari. The proceeds of his previous life had melted away, drained out of his pockets, by the need to physically rebuild the Post Office and the imposed tithe to those churches. So there was no nest-egg there to rely on if he were to break away, although a new one was growing, painfully slowly, from the….aaaargh! _salary _he was on. And even that would go, on the deposit on a house, if he and Adora… _a mortgage. Another chain. And then children? Adora had hinted that there was a history of twins in her family.__**(1)**__ Two more little ropes to tie him to the new gallows, yes. _

He sighed. And Adora was here, acting on reports of a trapped golem underneath an old burial mound. Apparently that had foundered because the other inhabitants of the mound had protested. He wasn't sure of the details, but apparently the Feegle – little blue men? - had found it impossible to damage or unsettle her working golems in any way, whereas she and the golems – well, the golems, anyway - had agreed it would be morally unjust to destroy their home. So negotiations were carrying on about how to remove the big stony eejit frae underneath oor mound wi'out collapsin' it, ye ken, mistress? If he's kin tae they big clay yins o'yours, you are welcome to him and no mistake there!"

No, Adora had run into a brick wall of her own there. At least he hadn't been asked – yet – to arbitrate…

And then he saw it. Inspiration blossomed. He went for a chat to the site holder.

"Oh, they're wheeled shepherds' huts, m'lord!" he said, with the slightly greasy intensity of used vehicle salesmen everywhere.

They're lightweight – well, fairly lightweight, anyway – so the travelling shepherd can pull it with him by means of the yoke, there, so as to follow the sheep. Well, you can't have permanent buildings up there on the wold, sir. It's said the moment you break the turf with a spade, the prosperity of the wold starts to leak out and the grass fails to feed the sheep… Granny Aching was dead agin' it, and so is young Tiffany…"

Moist's fertile brain started to turn over the possibilities.

_It needs a larger platform… perhaps larger wheels with wider rims, so as not to break the turf, that's taboo around here… maybe keep the shepherd's shelter as goodwill thing, but up on the hills, you might get away with the smallest clacks tower above… maybe mule drawn? The clacksmen will have to sleep in a tent, but it's peaceful round here… _

Moist grinned. He placed a companionable hand on the tradesman's shoulder.

"You make these? Exquisite workmanship! I might have a custom order for you…"

_Always use local craftsmen where possible. Give people a stake in what they come to see as their Clacks…_

The next job would be to get Feegle and Golems working together on liberating a stranded golem. But Moist's brain was now ticking over possibilities here too…

* * *

**(1) **A hidden joke. Readers of Harry Harrison's space-romps about _**The Stainless Steel Rat**_ will have spotted a certain curious resemblance. Harrison's lead character, "Slippery Jim" diGriz, who in a future which has largely eliminated crime, has a ball as an intergalactic conman, grifting and bunco-ing his way between planets. DiGriz is eventually brought to book by the Machiavellian policeman Inskipp, head of the Galactic Special Corps, who at first proposes to wipe Jim's brain free of all criminal impulses. However, Inskipp offers diGriz an Angel, in the form of his becoming a Corps agent… his first assignment is to track down, arrest, and bring in the lethal criminal Angelina, a woman with serious anger-management issues. He does this so well they end up married to each other. Spotted the resemblance to two Pratchett characters yet? "Slippery Jim" and the somewhat spiky Angelina go on to have twin sons, who become equally proficient at theft, larceny,grifting, con-manning and bunco.


	15. Death

Death

_DEATH in the Tarot appears to be a very final card. The mediaeval origins of Tarot are underscored by the appearance of DEATH in his mediaeval guise, as a cloaked and crowned skeleton wielding the scythe. He stalks a barren dying winter landscape – everything dies in its turn – with representatives of the human race, of all ages, sexes and social classes, fleeing in his wake. The severed heads of a King and Queen who couldn't dodge the scythe lie at his feet - proof that all die and nobody is immune. Images associated with death as a process might be strewn about the card – ravens, lilies, the ibis, et c. The astrological association is Scorpio and the planet Pluto – the sign of sudden endings and new starts, and the planet ruled by the Lord of the Underworld. The Hebrew letter "nun נ " – the fish – associates here (as with the crayfish in the Moon, the fish symbolises the lower mind and the potential for evolution, transition and change into something else operating on a higher level). __Well, the cliché is that this card very rarely symbolises or heralds actual physical death. 98% of the time this is true, but just every so often, depending on what falls around it… _

_The card is generally about the inevitability of change, the need to be positive about it and to welcome it. Like Death, change can often come out of the blue. Do you feel threatened or excited by this? _

_Although every so often, it might be a waste of effort to make any really long-term plans…._

_The Story:- I worked something out at long last. It involves a Discworld character I don't think I've ever properly done before. Here seen interacting with a cast of OC's and canonical characters. _

* * *

Doctor Davinia Bellamy walked the aisles of the Animal Management Unit, humming a cheerful tune. While the buiiding was _called_ the Animal Management Unit, the vision was that those animals of value and worth to the Guild of Assassins should be reared and nurtured in conditions as close as possible to those in their home environments. Thus, the Red-Bellied Tarantulas and the Monkey-Eating Spiders normally found in jungles in deep Paraquat and Tezuman lived their lives perfectly happily in jungle trees in a sealed habitat, also inhabited by prey species and a wide selection of native flora. Several species of the famous Tree Frogs lived in a bromeliad paradise which simulated the conditions to be found in the canopy of a rain forest: to reproduce this at ground level in Ankh-Morpork had been one of the initial challenges for the Guild School's Natural History Department. Davinia's expertise was in botany and the cultivation of rare and difficult plants. She had helped design and refine many of the habitats, and her responsibility was the ongoing viability of the exotic flora. She was particularly pleased with the vivariums and herpetology tanks established for the impressive range of snakes and serpents kept by the Guild. She felt these were masterpieces of collaboration between herself and her colleague, Miss Smith-Rhodes, who nurtured the animals. She was just jolly glad she didn't have to _feed_ the snakes, although this duty was routinely delegated to young student Assassins as an additional grading exercise. As the snakes, whether venomous or constrictors, required _live _food, the teaching Assassins monitored their students for signs of undue squeamishness, over-enthusiasm **(1)**, or worst of all in the presence of dangerous animals, _over-confidence. _

Although students – generally girls, but with the occasional boy – could sometimes stand there dithering, often in tears, saying "Please, Miss, I just can't do it!" It was known, although it meant a fail mark for the pupil. Davinia usually sent them to the quiet room to recover, with a few kind words, until they were ready to try again. No, she knew it was necessary, but she had to steel herself to do it. It wasn't a duty she _liked. _Assassins had to learn how to kill and had to harden themselves to death. Feeding the snakes and other carnivorous life-forms, initiating and observing the process of death, was held to be a neatly expedient way of getting this point across to students.

_It was dark in here. Airless. Smelly. And constricted. A traumatised small rat was shuddering out the last of its life under the incessant squeezing of the muscular walls around it. The venom had paralysed it, but it was still clinging to the last shreds of life and it was still capable of feeling some pain. Although the pain had ebbed and receded and now felt more distant… the lack of air was the most crucial thing as its consciousness faded. _

SQUEAK, _said a compassionate voice. It sounded like the voice of a rat, slowed down, stretched out, weighted with lead and then speeded up again. _

_{Squeak}}?said the soul of the hapless rat. With eyes that were not physical, it saw the scythe swing and a blue cord sever and spring free. _

_As freedom to move returned, it saw the bones, the remains of a long-dead rat… but in a hood and cowl? Holding a scythe? _

SQUEAK. _It said again, not unkindly so. The dead rat sighed. It had wondered what the catch was. Rat lore said that humans were the enemy, bent on killing and exterminating the Rat nations at every opportunity. Even the wild ones who sometimes scuttled carefully over the lab floors at night said so. So why were these humans, some adults, but mainly juveniles, in black, though some wore white overcoats, so friendly? Ever since birth, the humans had provided ample food and water, cleaned their spacious and luxurious cages, tended them if any were sick, even provided supervised breeding rights to some. Alright, so every so often rats he'd known had gone missing, taken away never to be seen again, but it had never been him, so he had not worried about it. Till earlier. And then, when the juvenile human had put him in the glass tank with the… with the… _

…_THEN he had seen the catch. _

_SQUEAK. Said the Death of Rats again, not unkindly, as he ushered the soul of the late lab-rat to its new world. And as one tiny hourglass blinked out of existence, another appeared. He looked at it. Not far to travel in space, then. Same building, in fact. He scuttled a pace or two forward, kicked the dozing mamba just out of principle and solidarity, making it jump and recoil, , and disappeared…_

Davinia walked on, observing her plants for occasional signs of wilt or leaf discoloration or other ill-being, until she got to the part of the building complex that was entirely hers: the hothouses, greenhouses and herbariums.

A group of students were working on picking weeds out from the soil around valued plants. They got in even here, dandelion and cow-parsley and nettles and rosebay willowherb, the verge and hedgerow weeds of the City. As the valued plants were of botanical and ultimately pharmaceutical interest to the Guild, the students were wearing thick gardening gloves and face protection. Davinia nodded, and found her own protective clothing for dealing with the maximum-security plants, the ones that only senior students were allowed to tend.

She heard a rustling in the undergrowth, and frowned. Wild rats and mice were a problem here. _But show me a part of Ankh-Morpork that doesn't have rats. At least in here, it tends to be self-regulating. If they get into some of the habitats, they never get out again. Although Johanna doesn't like the snakes and reptiles taking feral rodents. In this city, she says, that's like feeding them turdburgers. How did she phrase it? "like throwing kakburgers on the braii", she said. _

Rats and mice could also be a nuisance to some of her plants. Which was why Mr Mericet from Poisons and Miss Sanderson-Reeves the domestic science mistress had been collaborating on the perfect rat poison and the perfect delivery system. It was funny how nobody had ever studied this before and they'd always taken it for granted that rodents loved cheese. Joan Sanderson-Reeves had asked for experimental time with some of the lab rats, to discover what they _really_ liked to eat, and concluded that the old wives' tale was wrong: they largely left cheese untouched. But they really loved chocolate.**(2)**

So these days the mousetraps were baited with chocolate cake prepared by Miss Sanderson-Reeves and her DomSci students, laced heavily with Mr Mericet's experimental tasteless and odourless rat poisons. As Joan pointed out, it gives the gels invaluable practical poisoning experience, even if it's only rats! **(3)**

_And under the deepest cellar of the Animal Management Unit, the Alpha Rat, the Boss Rat, the undisputed master of all rats for several city blocks in either direction, the first to mate with the choicest females, the first to the tastiest food, the rat who could force any other lesser male into bleeding submission, was dying. _

_Ruefully, the alpha rat wondered if accepting the gift of food from an ambitious Number Two in the Rat hierarchy had been quite a good idea. The humans poisoned everything, after all, in their incessant war on the Race. And this had smelt like heaven. Looked like heaven. Tasted like heaven with no taint of the usual p__oisons. And yet the food of the Rat Gods had led to…_

SQUEAK.

_The cowled and robed almost-a – rat which had, in some indefiniable way walked straight through the wall, bowed._

SQUEAK_. ("It was the chocolate sponge, your majesty. They used an undetectable poison. The humans here are skilled in poisons.")_

_The Rat King nodded. It had been a good life. He was ready to go. _

_{{Squeak!}} he commanded, weakly. ("Make an end!")_

_The Death of Rats nodded, and laid his scythe aside. Pushing his robe aside, he drew a sword from somewhere. _

SQUEAK _("The sword, for a Rat King.")_

_The sword swung._

_{{Squeak!}} ("well, that was easy! Where to next?")_

SQUEAK! _("It's up to you now. It always has been.")_

_As the shade of the dead Rat King faded, and his Number Two moved in to assume the title and commence the feast, rather than to let all that suddenly-available protein be wasted, the Death Of Rats contemplated his next hourglass, and shook his head. Picking up his scythe, he thought "Sooner or later I'll get a change of scene…" and winked out. Just before he went, he admonished the former Number Two Rat not to even **think** of eating the wobbly purple bit that goes "gloing". _

Davinia set about pruning her Pyramid Strangler Vine.

_Bonsai work is just a matter of scale,_ she thought, as she ascended the tall stepladder. At ground level, a student assisted in holding the ladder steady. She appreciated this, eight feet up a restive plant.

_This is a plant that can grow three hundred feet tall and take over a whole step pyramid. They're more manageable bonsai'd back to a more practical eight feet or so. And you can't just leave them, they're like Lancrastria trees.__**(4)**_

Mindful of the carnivorous nature of the Strangler Vine, she moved with speed and caution, noting that this one had been doing its bit to resolve the feral rodent problem: at least one of the large bell-shaped flowers, fatter than the rest, had a ratty tail sticking out of its closed petals.

_Good, it's eaten. It'll be docile. _

Soon, she and her student were finished and were sweeping up the feebly-struggling lopped tendrils.

SQUEAK, _said the Death of Rats, performing his work of mercy on a rat that was already being attacked by the Strangler Vine's digestive juices. Strictly speaking, Death of Rats should have waited and come back in a few days: but he was keen to see the back of the Animal Managment Unit and the rodentine holocaust it represented. Releasing a rat from what would have been an agonizing slow death over a period of days – well, it was all a matter of time, anyway, as the end was pretty much inevitable. If the Duty allowed for mercy, and it better bloody well had to, it was at times like this, and bugger causality. _

_The Death of Rats consulted his next hourglass, and nodded with satisfaction. At last. His next Duty would be a bourbon refinery in Genua, where no doubt there was a blissed-out rat suffering terminal alcohol poisoning from the fermenting grain mash. He winked out, seeking his companion and steed, Quoth the Raven._**(5)**_ The place changes, but the Duty is always there._

* * *

**(1) **Students who actively enjoyed tormenting or ill-treating the live bait were weeded out of animal-care duties. Indeed, knowing cruelty to animals is one of the early indicators of the sort of serious mental disorder that could get the Guild a bad name, the Assassins took quiet decisive action with such pupils. It didn't want another Teatime, or De'ath, or Cruces, if it could help it. Davinia and Johanna used this test as a means of detecting such problem cases early.

**(2)** Dead true: pest control firm Rentokil recommend baiting your mousetrap with cheap chocolate. Rats and mice will literally die for it.

**(3) **The Guild of Ratcatchers had complained, pointing out the demarcation issue of the Assassins doing their job. The Assassins had replied with, OK then, send a man round who is comfortable at working around several hundred lethal species of animal and at least as many of plants. The Ratcatchers have not pressed the point. Although they are interested in the new rat poisons being developed at the Guild and are humbly asking if they can buy some.

**(4) **On Roundworld, _**Leylandii**_ bushes planted as perfectly reasonable twelve-foot high hedges have erupted into eighty-foot trees. This is a problem if allowed to grow too much without regular pruning. The Discworld version of this fast-growing bloody-minded plant must be _**Lancrastria**_…

**(5)** Quoth was passing time in the AMU's aviary, among the semi-tame ravens kept there and tended by Raven House students as their tutelory animal. He was enjoying the down-time offered by Death of Rats attending to a series of inevitable and oft-repeated duty calls, and was paying court to a particularly interesting female raven with a view to sharing a romantic dinner over an eyeball or two, folowed by, who knows, a session of making eggs happen. Meanwhile, Miss Alexandra Ouizlette de Cramptone Lacroix (student Assassin and heiress to the multi-million dollar Whizzla cigarette paper business**(6)**), of Form ThreeRaven, was blinking with disbelief as she tended the ravens, wondering why that one which only occasionally seened to be there, the bigger one that seemed more intelligent than the rest, appeared to be wearing a saddle and reins. She would write a report about it for Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Who, as she also had a supervisory responsibility at the City Zoo, which kept forty-seven species of rodent, and as a good naturalist knew the Secret, would send back with a note reading _Very good observation. you are not seeing things. You are in fact seeing what is really there. Now consult the literature on para and quasizooloogy, and write an essay on what is happening and most importantly **why**. On my desk by one on Saturday, if you please. JS-R. _

**(6) **On Roundworld, 16th century French nobleman Alexandro Rizlette de Cramptone Lacroix is credited with being the first to invent the pre-gummed cigarette paper as providing an alternative means to a pipe of smoking tobacco. Hence "Rizla".


	16. Temperance

14 Temperance

_I'm skipping over Death for the moment as I want this to be a special story – I have ideas, but none of them feel strong enough yet. _

_So we move on to Temperance, a card who in the sequence of the Major Arcana feels like That Difficult Bit In The Middle of Side Two - you know there's a gap, you have to fill it somehow, but you're running out of ideas. _

_The classic picture is of an angelic figure blending two liquids by decanting them from one jar to another. She is alternatively called Alchemy, sometimes Prudence.._

_Restraint, temperance, justice. Constant mindfulness of others and one's surroundings; practicing self-control, abstention, moderation, zero-sum and deferred gratification. Prudence to judge between actions with regard to appropriate actions at a given time. Proper moderation between self-interest, versus public-interest, and against the rights and needs of others. Alchemy, modern chemistry. All things taken in moderation. _

_As the seventeenth card, the Star, also has a motif of an angelic woman bearing a vessel of water, it feels as if a measure of un-necessary duplication may be going on here. To disentangle what may be happening here, we need to look at early mediaeval Tarot decks, from the late 1300's. (This is about as far back as the Tarot may reasonably be traced, despite the extravagant claims to Ancient Egypt made by Crowley and the Golden Dawn and others,, who fabricated a greater antiquity by tying their designs into Cabbalistic and ancient Egyptian symbology.)_

_Early decks exist where all the seven or eight classical Virtues, including Temperance, had their own card. But several of the Virtues have dropped out within the next three hundred years, leaving only Temperance, and the Star (Hope). Perhaps a little bit of Patience loves on in Strength, the motif of the woman of patience subduing the lion of wrath, and qualities of Charity might have been absorbed into the Empress… but eight virtues whittled down to two? _

_That gives me an idea for a story. _

The angel Sandalfoot, High And Glorious Guardian of the Most Holy **Caroc (1)**, felt like he wanted to hang up his halo. Redundancy was always a tricky thing, but having to confront eight Virtues and telling them six of them were now history… he'd consulted the manuals, brought in a box of hankies, and was prepared to say counselling sessions had been arranged with lesser Angels. They were waiting in the anterooms even now, after all.

But this bunch of females did not seem prepared to burst into tears and run out sobbing. In fact, they were getting positively _militant_ about it…

"I know it's hard, but we've got to downsize!" he almost shouted ."We can't sustain eight virtues on the Caroc Cards! The budget's stressed as it is!"

"Oh, _yeah_?" said Diligencia, cynically. "I _**know**_ what I'm worth, matey. And I haven't worked my back out of joint just to be kicked out of the group now!"

Sandalfoot backed off from tackling the Virtue of hard work and constant labour.

"Well, somebody like you… you know… should _**walk**_ into a new job straight away. Crying out for your skills, employers are!"

"Including _you_?" she asked, hawk-eyed.

"Well..er….at this moment in time… contractions in the workforce…sorry to lose you…." Sandalphon backed away, looking for an easier target.

_Ah. Humility. Big self-esteem issues. She'll be a pushover. _

"Now you agree we have to make sacrifices? We _all_ have to make sacrifices? And I know you 'll accept the logic that the group is bigger than the individual…"

Humility turned big just-about-to-burst-into-tears eyes to him, and was about to speak when Patience, Kindness and Chastity mobbed him.

"Oi, you, leave her alone! She always gets exploited by the likes of you! And no, Humility, it is _not_ alright. People like you always get the shitty end of the stick from people like him!"

"So why have I got my cards, then. Is Chastity out of fashion all of a sudden?" demanded Chastity, indignant.

"Well, no." said Sandalfoot. He thought quickly. "What with the need to _rationalise_, we asked the High Priestess to take on a few new lines in her job description…"

"I knew it. Scab!" said Chastity. Caritea, the Virtue of Kindness, backed her up.

"And I bet that's why the bloody Empress is grinning all over her face, she's took my job over! I may be Kindness but I'm not _that _much of a muggins! Bleedin' royals. Blackleg!"

Sandalfoot realised he'd backed into something hard. A sharp corner was jabbing into his back. He heard water sloshing.

"Bleedin' watch it, will you?" a peeved voice demanded. He turned to confront a rather dishevelled Virtue who was holding a large wine-glass for comfort.

"You nearly spilt her!"

Sandalfoot looked down and saw a large gleaming and bright-blue oyster was occupying the tank, who appeared to be looking balefully at him through the gap in her shell. **(2)**

He gathered himself together.

"Now surely you two, of all people, can't object to being dropped from the new edition of the Caroc?" he asked. "Fair's fair, nobody remembers what you happen to be Virtues _of,_ any more! And she's been turned into an oyster, anyway."

The dumpy little Virtue rounded on him.

"Izzat our fault? _Izzit?_ As the humans forgot us, so we forgot too. Fact of divinity – we're only as good as their memory of us!"

The wineglass quaffed, all over Sandalfoot's angelic robes. He winced. Red wine, especially Bibulous' finest, took some cleaning.

"Well, yes. But Tubby.."

"The name's _Tubso,_ rent-boy!"

"Tubso. Sorry. We can't have a card for Tubsoniousness in the Deck without being able to provide an explanation as to what it's _for_. Be _reasonable_!"

She glared up at him. Sandalfoot ploughed on.

"And she was turned into an oyster. By Epidity, God of Potatoes. For casting a weasel into the shadow of Resonata, Goddess of Ferrets, as I recall…"

"My mate Bissonomy? _And_ she's still technically married to the Great God Blind Io. Had a bonny bouncing goat with him, as I recall! _And_ their goat donated one of his horns to be the Cornucopia. The thing the bloody Empress swans around with as part of her portfolio. So you can be respectful! She wasn't _**always**_ an oyster, and Io refuses to turn her back…"**(3)**

The oyster looked up, even more balefully. Sandalfoot took a step back, lest she go for him.

"_Now listen!" _he shouted. "I've made my mind up. As of Thursday, six of you are redundant! _No arguing! _The only two, the _only _two of you, remaining in the Caroc pack, are Temperance and Hope."

_Hope has to be triumphant, like a guiding star in a dark night, and Temperance is the only one of the buggers who hasn't given me a hard time. Look at her sitting over there on her own, blissed out on something or other…_

_"_Pru? Prudence, love, wake up. You're in!"

He turned and stormed out. The Virtues looked at each other.

"Well, at least we're all statues in the University library still." said Patience, brightly.

"And just maybe Io's mellowed out by now, enough to give Bissonomy her human shape back?" Hope said, hopefully.

"Maybe we should all go together to talk to him.." mused Charity. "I'm sure I could persuade him to be reasonable about this!"

"Is there any of that wine left? " asked Humility. "I could use a drink. After everyone else has had one, obviously. I wouldn't want to be a bother."

* * *

**(1) **Aleistar Crowley divined that the angel Sandelphon was the guiding intelligence behind the Tarot cards.

**(2) **Look, given my favourite heavy rock band, I could not leave this out. Any followers of Bissonomy would, by definition, have to be a** Blue Öyster Cult. **Who sang, in **_Subhuman_: **_Oyster boys are/Coming for me/ Save me from the/Death-like creatures... (_versions are on two LP's:_ Secret Treaties (1975) _and_ Imaginos (1988)) _

**(3) Tubso **and** Bissonomy** first apear as dubious and forgotten Virtues in _**Going Postal **_by Terry the expanded story of the virtue Bissonomy, see _**Wintersmith**_ by Terry Pratchett. God's don't need to give reasons for their actions…


	17. The Devil

The Devil

_**Apologies. This is more of a cross-over between the Discworld and one of Pratchett's non-Discworld novels. For very good reason, as you will see. John, chapter 14, comes from the Gospels and is entirely God's creation in which I claim no share of copyright, et c. The portrayal of Jesus Christ is mine. Anyone from the Southern States wishing to make a bonfire of my fanfic - can I come and watch? **_

_The Devil, often portrayed as the hermaphrodite Baphomet, is the dominant figure in the background as he pulls the puppet-strings – or holds the other end of the chains - for a man and a woman who are unaware they are being manipulated._

_Esoterically, the operation of a sentient power of evil in the world – it does what it says on the tin. _

_Kabbalistically, the character of Satan as revealed in the book of Job – the Tempter, the agent provocateur who remains a honoured Angel of the Presence, only one charged with doing the undoable and thinking the unthinkeable. What are you tempted with, what is your vice? Remember, Temptation only has as strong a hold on you as that rather flimsy-looking chain. This card is also about the Seven Deadly Sins, the lowest urges of the human soul. If the Virtues think they were hard done by, then the Sins only have this one card in which to express themselves…_

_**Judea, Earth, 33 AD. An itinerant preacher is speaking to a small congregation in a crowded upstairs room. It is noticeable that fifteen are gathered therein. There should only have been thirteen, the preacher and his inner circle. But in the throng, nobody was counting. **_

The Preacher raised his head from whence it had been bowed in contemplation. He took stock of the people around him, Fourteen who, each in his own way, the Preacher loved as if they were brothers. Even if some of them were bloody hard work. He spoke. At opposite ends of the room, the scribe Lucas, who had been a doctor and thought he knew how to take accurate case-notes, and the disciple Thomas Didymus, who had been a tax-inspector and _definitely_ knew how to observe and record, poised their styli over the wax tablets of their notebooks. As the Preacher spoke, they began to transcribe, for the record.

1 "Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; so believe also in me. 2 My Father's house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. 4 You know the way to the place where I am going."

The Fourteenth, aware he was only here on sufferance, could not resist sending out a psychic probe to a receptive mind. _Well, he's called Thomas the _Doubter_, isn't he? _he said, as the Fifteenth protested. _Listen, Angel, I'm not doing it. It's his own wossname, innit? Fundamental psychological make-up, to doubt. My name is Thomas. I doubt. The way he's made! _

_Hmmpph! _Snorted the Fifteenth. The Fourteenth grinned. The angel had been getting really _snotty _and _superior_ these last thirty years, ever since that business in the stables. It was really straining their almost-friendship to the limits. Any chance of pricking his new-found priggishness was fair game, to the Fourteenth…

5 Thomas said to him, "Lord, we don't know where you are going, so how can we know the way?"

_Lord, I strongly protest! _

_Peace, Aziraphile, faithful angel. _

6 Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. 7 If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him."

_Even as he spoke, the Preacher felt a shuddering longing for __**enosis, **__the re-union with his sundered Other, who watched dispassionately from Heaven. Yet the energy of the Metatron was there for him to draw on as and when he needed it. All he needed was faith… he felt the Fourteenth move again in the psychic atmosphere, and smiled tolerantly. All things made up the Ineffable, after all. All things were necessary, in their place and time._

8 Philip said, "Lord, show us the Father and that will be enough for us."

There was a pause.

_Doubt tinged with false humility. What a wonderful set of people He's gathered around Him!_

9 Jesus answered: "Don't you know me, Philip, even after I have been among you such a long time? Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, 'Show us the Father'? 10 Don't you believe that I am in the Father, and that the Father is in me? The words I say to you I do not speak on my own authority. Rather, it is the Father, living in me, who is doing his work. 11 Believe me when I say that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; or at least believe on the evidence of the works themselves. 12 Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father. 13 And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. 14 You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.

_Anything? asked the Fourteenth. Jesus smiled._

"_It is not time yet for that Temptation, Crowley. And I daresay one greater than you will be despatched to conduct it. _

_Just asking, you understand. How are things with Mary Magdalene, anyway? I notice she's not here._

All the Disciples noted was that Jesus occasionally broke off and prayed in the tongue of Angels. They listened, breathlessly. Pentecost was yet to happen, and they had no way of deciphering the second conversation going on in the upstairs room. Which was just as well, really.

15 "If you love me, keep my commands. 16 And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another advocate to help you and be with you forever— 17 the Spirit of Truth. The world cannot accept him, because it neither sees him nor knows him. But you know him, for he lives with you and will be in you. 18 I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. 19 Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. 20 On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. 21 Whoever has my commands and keeps them is the one who loves me. The one who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love them and show myself to them."

He felt and heard the fourteenth stir again. Again he heard Aziraphile's peevish whine of _Lord, is this really seemly? Why are you allowing this? _

_Go on, Judas! _Crowley urged, mind to mind. _This is your big chance! You want Him to manifest in glory and lead a revolution to throw the Romans out, don't you? And what have the Romans ever done for __**you**__, when all's said and done? _

22 Then Judas said, "But, Lord, why do you intend to show yourself to us and not to the world?"

_Was that really necessary, Crowley?_

_Anger. Rage. Resentment. Vindictiveness. Desire for revenge. And you heard the one he told about the seed landing on fertile soil, Angel. Can I help doing my Father's work in the garden, so to speak? _

_Lord, I protest! _

23 Jesus replied, "Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them. 24 Anyone who does not love me will not obey my teaching. These words you hear are not my own; they belong to the Father who sent me.

25 "All this I have spoken while still with you. 26 But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. 27 Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

_Aziraphile, faithful friend, you speak out of fear and trouble that the Fourteenth has found fertile ground here among my disciples. So it must be. They are only human and humanity listens to both Voices. It is all part of the Ineffable in the end._

28 "You heard me say, 'I am going away and I am coming back to you.' If you loved me, you would be glad that I am going to the Father, for the Father is greater than I. 29 I have told you now before it happens, so that when it does happen you will believe. 30 I will not say much more to you, for the Prince of this World is coming.

_And he is not you, Crowley. Although as John the Baptist did for me, you pave a way for him in the wilderness. No doubt He will commend you for smoothing his road. _

He has no hold over me, _(I tolerate him for he is necessary. And he amuses me, too.) _31 but he comes so that the world may learn that I love the Father and do exactly what my Father has commanded me.

"Come now; let us leave".

Twelve obediently left the upstairs room. Leaving the Preacher with two. One immediately bowed down before Him in worship. The other lounged against the wall, looking louche and cool. Jesus smiled, a warmth and an acceptance that encompassed both.

Despite himself, Crowley felt uneasy. He wondered what the penalty might be for gate-crashing this particular party.**(1)**

"Oh, _do_ get up, Aziraphile!" he said, tolerantly.

"I can never have a proper conversation with an Angel these days. They all seem to want to fight for the Most Pious Angel In Heaven award around me. But _you_, on the other hand…"

"How may I not be of service?" Crowley inquired. As this wasn't nearly enough, and vast gulfs separated them on the divine hierarchy, he added a polite "Sir".

Jesus smiled.

"Just… be _you_, Crowley. As hard as you can be. I'm not going to insult you by being patronising or smug or condescending. That would be inappropriate. I know that winning the War is not a given thing."

"Lord!" said Aziraphile, shocked. Jesus lifted a hand.

"Let me finish, faithful Angel. I know I'm very soon going to come up against One who makes Crowley here look like a mere cherub. One of the most powerful Princes of Hell will arise and seek single combat with me. I've just tried to warn the disciples, although I doubt if any of them understood. And it is not a given thing that I will withstand His temptation."

"Ah. Mary Magdalene, sort of thing?" inquired Crowley. "Or that business with the disciple you love above all others, with whom you have been known to share a kiss?**(1a)** Oh, purely Platonically, no doubt, brotherly love, _agape,_ sort of thing…"

Jesus waved him into silence. For a moment, a cool blue light played about him. Crowley, uneasily, remembered that Jesus Christ was the Earthly manifestation of the divine energy known as the Metatron**(2)** and he wondered if he'd gone too far. That level of the divine hierarchy could swat him like a fly without breaking a sweat.

Jesus smiled, and for an instant looked human and tired.

"I need to go into the Desert – alone - and prepare myself for it."

The angel looked hopeful. "You don't need anyone to…"

"I said _alone_, Aziraphile!" he repeated, firmly. There was a silence.

"What was that bit about the "many mansions", sir?" Crowley inquired, politely.

"What's it to _you_?" Aziraphile exclaimed, indignant.

"You know, just in case I have to interpret Scripture for my own ends, as I go up and down in the world, roaring like a lion being strictly optional." Crowley explained. "Can't do that if I don't know what the Scripture is _meant_ to mean!"

Jesus smiled.

"It's all to do with being omnipresent and omniscient." He explained. "Look, I confess that in this human body I don't understand it fully myself, but the whole infinitely immortal and infinitely wise and all-knowing bit doesn't just revolve around this one world and this one set of collapsing probability wavefronts."

The angel and the demon looked politely blank. Jesus thought hard.

"Look, this one reality is not all there is, by any means. Every choice we make sets up alternative paths and alternative futures, yes? Believe me, there is a whole infinity of parallel realities out there, and the Father, the Ineffable, exists in all of them simultaneously. It is not given yet to me to see them all, but I have this recurring bad dream, a nightmare if you like, where at the end of my ministry here, I get sent to somewhere called America, to preach to the Lost Tribes of Israel, who made their way there and founded a civilization. The peoples of Mormon.**(3)**.

"And I know this to be true, but not for me in this world. A version of me in a nearby parallel universe has to do that. And look up into the stars. Do you think this is the _only_ place to have evolved intelligent life?"

"For a given version of "intelligent", at least…" mused the Angel.

"Where intelligent life evolves, spirituality evolves." said Jesus.

"And where spirituality evolves, the Two Forces evolve. Heaven and Hell. Some planets might make their own arrangements with different Gods. There might be an infinity of me doing this mission all over again in a million different places. To liberate people drawn astray by your side. "

"Ouch" said Crowley.

"Gopher day." mused Aziraphile, and then wondered why he'd said it.**(4)**

"You don't believe me?" Jesus said, tolerantly.

"It's a lot to take in, Lord." Aziraphile said.

"Then let me show you one such world. I heard about it when I was in India.**(5)****"**

Jesus flexed his fingers. He prayed to the Metatron for aid. And then the Angel and the Demon were no more.

He smiled. They would be returned when the time was right. And it meant Aziraphile would not be hanging on like an obsequious butler or a fan-girl when he retired to the Desert to build strength for the Final Conflict.

He went downstairs to join the disciples, who he knew would be faithfully waiting for him.

And the Angel and the Demon found themselves in deep space. This was not a problem for either – the cold was a tad uncomfortable, admittedly, but neither needed to breathe.

With disbelieving eyes, the watched the turtle swimming through space. On its back were four elephants. And on _their _backs…

"Somebody's having a laugh, right?" said Crowley.

"Oh dear." said Aziraphile. "Paganism. The world-turtle of the Hindus, I'm afraid."

"Well" said Crowley, decisively, "At least we're sure of a decent curry. I'm going down. Coming?"

* * *

_There will be a Part Two, chronicling Aziraphile and Crowley's brief stay on the Discworld. Coming soon! _

**(1) **Although before it was all over, he and Aziraphile would gate-crash another, more significant, party held in an upstairs room on a Thursday night. A long time later, Crowley would persuade daVinci to include them both in a first draft of the Last Supper.

**(1a) **Jesus does exchange a kiss with an anonymous Disciple, identified only as "the one whom he loved more than all" on the night of the Last Supper. OK, this does not necessarily impute anything later Christians interpret as an automatic Hell-bound offence. A kiss between men was not un-known in those days and presumes nothing homo-erotic. Or the beloved Disciple might not have been male at all - Mary Magdalene, perchance.

**(2)** Really true. The note on the Metatron in the Pratchett-L-Space Wiki reads

_In Cabbalistic theory (Judaic mysticism) the Metatron is the "bridge", the "gate", an intermediary between the Godhead and his human creation. Christianity takes the logic of this a step further, identifying the Metatron with the Second Person of the Holy Trinity. (who of course, in Christian theology, is God made man, a living bridge between the Godhead and humanity, who we know better as Jesus Christ.) Perhaps, with one eye on the US market, TP and NG would have had to disguise any direct appearance in this book by Jesus Christ lest they __**really**__be accused of blasphemy. Even though the return of Christ in glory is, of course, one of the culminating events of the Apocalypse. (which in __Good Omens__is switched off by the principal characters before it gets to this stage…)_

_The full theological explanation is on the Notes page and gets heavy. _

**(3) **Really true. This is the starting point and USP of the Mormon religion in the USA.

**(4) **Groundhogs were not native to Palestine. Gophers were.

**(5) **There is a huge gap in the Gospel records as to what Jesus did and where he went between ages 13-30. It has been speculated that he went seeking wisdom, which as we all know is never to be found at home, and visited places as far-flung as Glastonbury and India. The parable of the Fig Tree indicates he knew something about Buddhism – in which fig trees play a significant role.


	18. The Devil, part two

The Devil

_**Part Two**__, in which a Demon and an Angel visit one of the Ineffable's "Many Mansions". This particular mansion is carried on the backs of four elephants which in turn stand on the back of a giant astro-chelonian…_

As the decision was made, Crowley and Aziraphile found themselves slipping out of a deep-space perspective. Previously, it had felt as if they had just been standing there, gaping at the improbable planet passing by. Now, they were falling towards it, at a faster and faster speed.

Crowley, exultantly whooping, found the psychic breath to shout at the Angel (metaphorically speaking).

_Hey! Aziraphile! Now you know what it feels like to Fall! Great, isn't it?_

The Angel just screamed, goggle-eyed, as the land surface of the Disc rushed up to meet them.

_Where's your faith, Angel? HE wouldn't have sent us here just to splatter on the ground from several miles up, would He? And besides…._

The back of Crowley's Roman-styled tunic tore along its seams and the huge black-pinioned wings spread into the Discworld sky. Wondering how he was going to explain this to Stores when he got back to Heaven to indent for a new body, Aziraphile happily grasped the chance , and soon a set of white angelic wings had bloomed alongside the black leathery pinions.

Both of them soon realised their rate of decent had slowed rather than stopped. Something was incessantly pulling them down, towards the mountain range right in the middle of the central continent, and most specifically towards the single lofty spire that rose from the dead centre, like a finger raised to the Ineffable… but at least, with wings, the fall was manageable now and there was actually air to support them. They could also resume direct conversation rather than mind-to-mind.

"Oh, dear oh dear!" said Aziraphile, shaking his head. "I can sense pagan deities nearby. They're not _doing_ anything very much, just watching us."

"Nnngh!" said Crowley, who could sense them too. Some of the probing minds seemed hostile, defensive…

"They're wondering who we are… if we're new Gods. Oh no, I don't want them getting THAT idea!"

"Why not? New place, different set-up. We can gather believers. Tithes. Thing. Really clean up!" said Crowley, who quite liked the idea of promotion to God-hood. It was the biggest primal reason why Lucifer had Fallen, after all. But he also sensed the established people had not got to where they were today by allowing competition…

"Eyeballs?" said Crowley, as they descended further. What looked like a couple of disembodied eyes were circling them, curious and unblinking. Underneath, Aziraphile was looking at positively the most _tasteless _piece of vanity-building since the nouveau-riche of Rome had started throwing up large vulgar villas as a means of displaying their wealth in public.

"Ugh!" he said.

"Ugh indeed, Angel" said Crowley. "I don't suppose a disembodied _mouth_ might like to turn up and tell us what's going on?"

"They can't hear you, Crowley. No ears." said the angel. And then, as if a decision had been made, the eyes zipped off back towards a distant spire of the gaudy building. Crowley and Aziraphlie found it impossible to approach the wedding-cake confection of spires and palaces that signally failed to grace the top of the mountain. They uniformly shone gold: Crowley would remember this occasion thirty or forty years later, when he returned to Earth and ended up in a position advising the mad young Emperor Nero about the design for a new palace.**(1)**

Something appeared to be forcing them away, sending them sailing lower down the mountain.

Aziraphile turned, puzzled.

"Apparently we're going in through the back door. Whatever that means." he said.

"I think it means that!"

They looked down to where an utterly black chasm had opened between the lesser mountains at the base of Cori Celesti. The utter dark repelled them both and drew them in at the same time. It was like a whirlpool in space and time. Crowley fancied he could hear the whispers of _souls _as they descended…

"Oh, Hell." Said the Angel, quietly.

"You get used to it. " said Crowley. "It isn't so bad."

The next stage of their journey was in Stygian darkness. They switched on their supernatural sight, so as to see what they could in the dark, such as a river, which they flew across, thus getting around the long queue for only one boat. Disregarding the boatman's cry of "'Ere! That's against regulations, is that! And you owe me fourpence!", they flew to the far shore. There was a gateway. It might once have had an inscription upon it. A dejected and disgruntled -looking woman in a robe sat just outside. She appeared not to notice the two entities.

Aziraphile nudged the demon. Crowley shrugged.

"Oh, that'll be Hope. She got abandoned here. But it doesn't stop her trying!"

They knocked on the door. A diabolical countenance appeared at the guard's window.

"Yes?"

"Two to come in. Apparently." said Crowley, who had resigbned himself to going with the flow. The dreaded entity looked at a clipboard.

"Party the name of Crowley, demon from a different dimension? Plus one?"

"Yes He's a…"

"Oh, I _know_ what he is! He's on the invite as an Observer, right? They get to send people here from time to time. He's in, so long as _she_ don't try to tag along."

The gate-demon scowled and flicked a thumb-like proboscis towards Hope, who had briefly perked up. "That's DEAD against the door code, that is! Better do you two gents a name-badge each, won't be long…" The gate-demon turned away.

"Sorry…" Aziraphile said to Hope. She smiled.

"Oh, that's OK. This is the one place they tell me I can't go. Got to keep trying, though. So I picket the door every so often."

"You don't have to be "damned" to work here, but it helps" Crowley said, reading the new portal message. "You know, angel, I might pick up a few ideas here!"

Then the gate-keeper returned.

Two fiery name-badges were passed over. Both read "VISITOR".

"Clip 'em where you can, gents. You're going down, by the way.."

The door opened onto an old-style passenger lift. Crowley and Azirpahile had barely time to steady themselves before it plummeted downwards. Through the lattice-work sides, they glimpsed appalling, soul-destroying things, but never in sufficient detail. It all coalesced into a mind-wrecking miasma of futility and ennui and boredom after a while. The Angel whimpered. Crowley felt quite at home, and shrugged. He wondered where they were heading.

Finally the hourney ended, inside a large and well-appointed office. They stepped shakily out of the lift, which disappeared. A loud voice boomed "WELCOME!" and handshakes were offered.

Crowley regarded the demon critically. He was dressed in a rather showy way, that was just beginning to come into fashion in his Hell. Cloven hooves, naturally, but some sort of all-in-one blood-red jump suit and a long black, red-lined, cloak. His horns were neatly kept, great spiralling ram's horns in black, he affected a little goatee beard, and he wore a golden crown. And was that a _trident_ propped up in the corner?

"Astfgl, King of Hell." He introduced himself. "Although let's not stand on ceremony here." He turned and boomed "Nuggan, you little worm, get some coffee for our guests! No, not the cheap stuff from the machine! That's only fit for the damned, and _you!_ The good stuff, the stuff I drink!"

This was addressed to a cringing little man in a toga, with slicked-back hair and a fussy little jobsworth moustache.

"Apologies, you can't get the staff these days." Astfgl said. "Used to be a God, until he pissed on his chips and disaffected so many followers that they lost belief in him! As that's effectively death to a God, but we were so impressed in exactly _how_ he killed himself, the neighbours offered him a choice. He could go drifting on the wind again as a semi-sentient Small God and take his chances, or he could come down here and stay himself. He chose here. Got sent to me as a personal assistant. I must say he's _promising_, cringing little tick, and the ideas he had as a God really interest me."

"Can I be blamed? All I wanted to do was to give their insignificant human lives a little structure!" the ex-God Nuggan whined. "The Abominations were for their own good!"

"Ah, paved with good intentions…" murmured Aziraphile. "I say, are those _scrolls _over there?"

"And books." Said the Demon-King, cheerfully. "Keep meaning to get them into some sort of order, but there's so much to do and plan that there's never quite time… never seen a book before? Nuggan, show him!"

Nuggan capered towards the bookcases that appeared to line all the walls of the office suite.

"The principle is very simple" he explained. "With a scroll, you have to continually unwind one roll and wind onto the other to find the passage you want. That's time-consuming. With all the pages stitched and glued into a binding, in sequence, all you need know is the page reference and you're there in seconds…"**(2)**

Aziraphile was entranced.

"Such a simple, effective, idea!"

Astfgl placed a kindly senior-demon hand on Crowley's shoulder.

"I've introduced a few good ideas upstairs." he said. "Haven't been up for a look for some time, but Vassenego and the others assure me it's running like clockwork. What do you think of this one?"

"Health and Safety Regulations" Crowley read off the spine. He opened a sample page. And very soon his mind was firing with ideas, too.

As Aziraphile set about introducing a simple cataloguing system to allow Astfgl to keep track of his books, scrolls and manuscripts, Crowley and the Demon-King were trading ideas for how to spread the maximum amount of sin across the greatest number of people for the least effort. With a greatly increasing wheeled vehicle traffic in the major cities of the Roman Empire, Crowley had sketched out a plan to get the humans to introduce traffic wardens and parking regulations. **(3)**Astfgl listened intently, and suggested this be compounded with regular expensive and cumbersome roadworthiness examinations for all vehicles, conducted in bureaucratic impenetrability and expensive and irksome to the vehicle-owner. And this _road insurance_ idea of yours?

Nuggan, meanwhile, was learning about order and position and shelving from an _expert._ In a very definite way, all four of the people in an office in the bowels of Hell were happy doing what they did best. Temptation comes in many forms...

_**I may return with more short crossover tales, published seperately, of the adventures of Crowley and Aziraphile on the Discworld. But this will do, for this purpose... "The Star" will arrive soon!**_

* * *

**(1) **Nero wanted a palace fit for the greatest Emperor ever – ie, him. Thinking back to the magnificent vulgarity of Dunmanifestin, and reasoning that such an architectural abortion would spread incremental disgust, ennui, negativity and general ill-feeling around most of the million-strong population of Rome, Crowley had drafted pictures and plans for the monument to tastelessness that became the Golden House. Crowley adamantly denied any responsibility for implanting the idea to burn Christians alive and feed them to starving wild animals in the Arena. He firmly insisted Nero had come up with _that_ one all on his own, and anyway, the Christians were such a miserable bunch they'd utterly failed to make converts, would have spread ill-feeling, and would have died out naturally. Until some clever bastard chose to make martyrs out of them, ensuring a flood of fresh recruits to a persecuted minority faith.

**(2) **It's like the difference between video cassettes and DVD's.

**(3) **This had been submitted to Hell in 4BC and lost in the filing system, only to re-emerge in 1965. Crowley had received a very late demerit for this.


	19. The Tower

16 The Tower

_A tall and seemingly impregnable tower is struck by lightning and bursts into flame. Or otherwise explodes and collapses. A man and a woman are seen falling out from a higher window. Ominous black stormclouds are overhead, punctuated by flashes of lightning, and it is clear there is no place to hide. _

_Sudden disaster, sudden complete change. A place or a person or an institution thought to be ever-present and unchanging suddenly collapses in ruins. What do you do if your health fails or your house burns down, or you're travelling on a bus where you see somebody with a large rucksack fiddling with two wires sticking out of the top…if you lose your job… if your savings go down the toilet when your investments go belly-up.. if you suddenly end up with nothing… disaster and recovery after disaster. Not a nice card. At least it does come with an assurance that things are not likely to get _**much**_ worse…_

_

* * *

_

Ankh-Morpork is a city with a surprising number of towers.

There are the obvious ones, such as the looming and mysterious Tower of Art which dominates the skyline and can be seen from a surprising distance away. Eight hundred and eighty-eight feet tall and unguessably ancient, the best age the Guild of Archaeologists can put on it is ten thousand years old. Or, from other contrary evidence also discovered on the dig, it was built last Friday, will be built in the next century, and isn't in fact scheduled to be built for another ten thousand years, and is therefore an optical illusion. This is patently ridiculous and had Miss Alice Band throwing her hands up in frustration. Although she _has_ tried to excavate on magical sites before**(1)** and from an archaeologist's perspective, hates them, because of how ornery they can be.

Many of the redundant towers in the outer and inner City Walls have been taken over for other uses. The former tower of The Keeper of The King's Wardrobe (just next to all the wall-top garderobes which remain in constant use today) **(2)**is today the Haberdashers' Tower, Guildhouse for the Tailors' and Haberdashers' Guilds.

The Leaning Tower, at the junction of Rime Street and Frost alley, is the former headquarters of the Thieves' Guild. Although the Thieves have long since moved on to the former Law Courts, they maintain this tower as a store-room and strong-point where valuable stolen items are kept under guard.

The Temple of Small Gods has its impressive Gong Tower, and the longer-established Guilds have their various bell and clock towers.

But, dwarfing all of them except for the Tower of Art, is the only lasting legacy of disgraced financier and entrepreneur Reacher Gilt.**(3)**

Already several hundred feet up on the summit of The Tump, a largely man-made hill in the upper turnwise quadrant of the City, the Tump Tower risers for five hundred feet and is the City's tallest made building (nobody knows who built the Tower of Art, nor why). Built to radical and unproven techniques by the Guild of Architects and using novel and lightweight building material, the tower is home to the Grand Trunk Corporation and liberally festooned with clacks towers and semaphores all the way up its height. It wobbles a lot in a high wind, and the race is on to get it adequately equipped with lightning conductors against the inevitable day it will be hit by lightning.

Nominally adding to the city's office and building space, in practice nobody very much wants to go much beyond about two hundred feet up, and much of the upper floor space remains unoccupied save for crazy clacksmen and a sub-set of Extreme Gamblers who thought living opposite the prone-to-self-immolate Alchemist's Guild was a bit too tame. (This offers them a chance for a set of _really exciting _bets).

People have also sworn that on nights when the magical flux has been higher than usual, the Tower of Art has _twisted round_, and somehow _glared_ at the young upstart across the city. Professor Ponder Stibbons has gone "um…" and tried to explain that just as wizards, in the bad old days, retreated to towers and did not brook competition, thus opening Mage Wars of great violence and destruction, it could well be the case that their _towers _are jealous of each other, too.

Either way – poor construction, the poisoned legacy of Gilt, the clacks towers straining the building's fabric, or the jealousy expressed by the Tower of Art at a parvenu upstart - nobody really thinks the Tump Tower is going to stay up for very much longer.

Commander Vimes of the Watch wants it knocking down, pronto: in his own well-chosen words, if it goes up, there's going to be a Towering Inferno. And what happens, given the ever-growing population in the airspace over the city, if some bloody Klatchian flies a magic carpet right into it? A fully charged magical field hitting an unstable high building… especially one where the stairs are too flimsy to allow Golems to climb and put fires out or rescue people. To Vimes, it is a disaster waiting to happen.

Lord Vetinari is considering the issue. Although scurrilous rumour has it that he has spoken to Miss Smith-Rhodes at the Assassins' Guild, and asked how many completely deniable exothermic alchemy charges it might need to bring down a building by night, during a bad thunderstorm in which …well, we never _did _get round to finishing installing those lightning conductors, tsk tsk, regrettable, at least it opens the site for a better designed and more _stable_ building. Talking (seemingly) to himself, Vetinari mused: "It was a mercy that nobody was in at the time, and yes, it did collapse in a_ remarkably_ even way, straight down, rather than drifting to the side and destroying half of Brookless Lane and Spa Road in one of the most expensive parts of Ankh…" Miss Smith-Rhodes, for her part, is quite interested in the professional challenges presented by the inhumation of an entire building, and has been seen in the Black Library's (De)Construction and Civil (Dis)Engineering section, taking notes and making calculations..

The Tump Tower, already thought of by the people as a part of the city skyline as if it had been there forever, might well become a memory quite soon. Meanwhile, Professor Stibbons has sent the University's Professor of Esoteric Civil Engineering and Eldritch Surveying to the Tower of Art to soothe it, empathise with it, and find out what it wants. Most builders only ever have to do a more prosaic condition survey...

* * *

**(1) **See my story, _**The Lancre Caper. **_

**(2) **Really true. The old Kings really did hang their clothes in the toilet to keep moths at bay. The Keeper of the Wardrobe at Conway Castle in North Wales occupied the tower next to the line of impressive garderobes for this reason.

**(3) **Not entirely at the start, when he looked legitimate and people were being taken in by him, he made a big public thing about endowing the Assassins' Guild School with sufficient cash to establish a new House of Study. This was eventually called Tump House, the _very welcome and generous_ donation of money arriving at the time the Guild was gearing up to admit girl students. Housemistress Alice Band has been pressing consistently for a change of name to remove the Gilt association. Tump House may be renamed Praying Mantis House, to keep up the tradition of naming the female Houses after animal species with attitudinal females, ie Black Widow, Raven, and Scorpion.


	20. The Star

**The Star**

_The scene is a barren desert with very little green and growing. The sky above is night and utterly dark, save for a single star glowing brightly in the heavens. A woman, robed and veiled, kneels on one knee. She is carrying a large amphora of water on one shoulder, and is tilting this so it spills on the desert floor. The water does not drain into the sand – rather it appears to be forming the beginnings of a stream, widening as it flows, as if this is the start of a mighty river. _

_In a barren and forlorn land, perhaps all that is left after the utter destruction of the Tower, the virtue of Hope walks and pours her message onto the land. Just as the desert is dry and barren save for the life-giving water, the sky is black save for the one bright star. As above, so below: water in the desert, light into blackness. Recovery after disaster, or at least the hope thereof. Think of the herdsman Isaac's servant Eliezar, who leads his animals to water, thirsty after being lost in the desert . As the camels drink (that gimel again - think High Priestess), the beautiful girl Rebecca offers water to Eliezer, servant of Isaac, and asks who his master is. As God has assured Abraham and Isaac, this is the beginning of something big – not just a marriage, but of the Jewish religion and race. _

_Hope can also be a bugger. People holding onto false hope sometimes do not realise it's an illusion: if you have crippling debts on a Thursday, staking your last cash on a lottery ticket __**migh**__t make it right, but only at odds of 47,000,000 to one… sometimes you have to realise it's only a siren call, and walk away. Hope works best if it's realistic and you've done your homework. _

Joshua Nail was a man beset with problems. He owed Chrysophrase the troll money at punitive interest. The rents were due and he had no idea how to pay them. his only hope, with his last couple of dollars, was the big accumulator roll-over at the Temple of Anoia. The midweek service jackpot stood at ten thousand and had gradually built up over a month or so. If the Goddess smiled on him, that would clear all his debts and more… _It could be me, _he thought_. It better bloody well be! _

__

_

* * *

_

Meanwhile that Wednesday afternoon, a group of senior Assassins had been called to the Master's Office on Filigree Street, in conditions of extreme security and secrecy.

Only eight Assassins – an inauspicious number, for those prone to reflection – had been called to the Dark Council's conference room. But looking around the table, Lord Downey knew they were the very best for special contracts. The eight knew it, too: each of them was credited with something different, something special, something noteworthy, and they all had the accolade of a discreet silver plaque in the Library that told the Guild why they were distinguished.

_One of them must be capable of pulling this one off_, Downey thought, mustering his briefing papers. _I don't want to go back to Vetinari empty-handed to tell him this client is unkillable. _

"Thank you all for coming here." he began. "The reason for your being selected to be present is that the Guild has received a unique contract. Obviously I am not at liberty to divulge the identity of the person or persons who have approached us, but it is a matter of the greatest importance for the future stability of the Disc if this client is inhumed."

Downey took a deep breath.

"There are _difficulties _surrounding this client. Any approach will require wholly novel and new methods to bring about a lasting and satisfying inhumation. You are all here because, without exception, you have all been innovators and pathfinders in your practice of the Craft. Innovation is definitely called for in this case."

He nodded at one of the eight. "Madame Deux-Epees. You are so far the only member of the Guild to have inhumed a troll**(1)**. Your account of how you concluded that contract is, you will be pleased to know, the standard work of reference, should such a contract come up again.

"Mr Pteppic, I'm so glad you could be here. I understand you thought you'd given up the active profession, but your working history speaks for itself. A pantheon of Gods, over three thousand monarchs and a whole way of life**(2)**. The Guild remains in awe of you. Thank you for attending in the hour of the Guild's need.

"And Miss Smith-Rhodes. You are the first Guild member to have inhumed a were-creature**(3)**. Again your methodology is the standard guide, lodged in the Black Library for those who might follow on where you have led."

Downey complimented each in turn on their original and inventive minds and what they had achieved for the Guild, and then outlined the contract according to what was known about the client, an Überwaldean nobleman who was known for his cruelty and ruthlessness. Against growing consternation and expressions of disbelief, Downey felt it necessary to add "This contract is worth a quarter of a million dollars. That's a hundred and twenty-five thousand to the successful candidate. This is based on difficulty plus the pressing need for this person to be annulled."

Johanna Smith-Rhodes lifted a hand.

"Sir. Is it permissible to take essistents on this contrect?"

Downey considered.

"Give me their names along with a working plan and a description of their proposed role. And I will veto or approve as I see fit." he said.

She nodded. Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Ēpées nudged her.

"You do not intend to do this thing, cherie?" she asked, urgently. "It frightens me. I know my limits."

Johanna smiled. "You hev got to hev _hope_!" she said. "But _only_ efter preparing, plenning, briefing end rehearsing end checking nothing cen go wrong!"

"Entirely up to you, of course." Pteppic said, politely. He knew the deadly efficacy of the new women Assassins. "But for myself, I think the time isn't right to re-enter the active profession, even for serious money. Chidder?"

His business partner, a man who had fitted in occasional little jobs for the Guild in between merchant venturing expeditions, grinned and nodded affirmation.

"I'll sit this one out, thanks!" he said. "Viper House can cover itself in somebody else's glory this time!"

In the end, Johanna found herself sitting in the Black Library, reading, researching, making plans, and sending confidential notes to Downey asking for clarification of some points about the client. She also called in two trusted recent graduates, both of whom had been her pupils, and briefed them in secret. Both expressed a willingness to join her on this contract.

And then she found herself writing a letter she hoped would never be received.

It began

_My dearest Ponder. _

_If you are reading this then you will know I have not returned from a mission. But you knew when you met me I am an Assassin, just as I knew your being a research wizard is a very risky profession…_

She would leave it with Reverend Clement, who would know when to deliver it. She hoped he would never have to deliver it.

And then she went back to mission planning again. _{To be continued in "The Sun"}_

_

* * *

_

"Do explain the concept to me again, Your Grace" Vetinari invited her, pouring another cup of tea for his guest.

Extremelia Mume, Bishop of the Church of Anoia, reiterated her main selling point again.

"On a fifty pence ticket, my lord, eighteen pence is raised for distribution to good causes. Twenty pence goes into the prize-pool which generates the money prizes which will encourage take-up of tickets. Six pence goes in City tax. Six pence goes to the Church of Anoia to meet our legitimate operating costs for running the City Lottery."

"And you really think you can sell up to two hundred thousand tickets a week?" Vetinari inquired.

"Easily, my lord. Which represents twelve thousand dollars a week in City tax."

"And which by the same mathematics, as I cannot help reflect, also generates a twelve thousand dollar a week income for the Church of Anoia." Vetinari said, drily.

"Hardly that, my Lord. Out of that amount we would have to print and distribute the lottery tickets – we have asked Teemer and Spools to come up with a range of options and estimates for the cards, which have to be eye-catching and fraud-proof – we would need to provide an incentive to outlets to stock and sell them for us. I estimate ten pence profit for every fifty cards sold, as people going into a newsagent for a lottery ticket are likely to buy other items too, and thus boost that retailer's general sales. Gamblers' Guild tax of a penny a ticket. Mr Jones is happy with that, I've checked it with him. We need to employ additional staff to check claims and act as a deterrent to fraud. To tally the monies and distribute it accordingly. Mr von Lipwig is very keen to assist, incidentally, so the Royal Bank and the Post Office are both on side…"

Vetinari raised a hand.

"I am for this idea in principle, Bishop. Some little details need to be adjusted, such as the level of City tax on the proposed lottery. But imagine my position. While I am aware your church reaches out to gamblers in an _unprecedented_ way and has accumulated a lot of specialised pastoral knowledge, which is I'm sure invaluable, as Patrician I must think of the _other_ churches and temples. There would be a certain amount of opposition and professional jealousy to this project being handed exclusively to one Church among many to administer. High Priest Ridcully would…"

"He would appreciate being allowed to chair the inter-faith ecumenical committee that will oversee donations and gifts to charities and good causes around the city, my Lord." said Extremelia, with confidence.

"And a few charitable donations to projects close to the heart of the Ionians, the Offlerians and the Omnians would serve to defuse any opposition." she said, with confidence. "I happen to know the Divine Legion of Salvation needs roof repairs to its Citadel, and both the charitable hospital and the girls' school dedicated to Seven-Handed Sek could use capital investment, and…"

Vetinari raised a hand.

"I can see you've thought this through, your Grace." he said.

He steepled his fingers.

"Assuming I choose to permit the establishment of a City Lottery, how soon could you be up and running? And my preference is fifteen to good causes, twenty to the prize pool, eight in City tax and seven to the organiser for their necessary expenses."

Another point struck Vetinari.

"And even in this city, your Grace, how can you be certain that people will leap at the rather remote offer of fifty pence, invested now, which just _might _bring a million dollars to them? To be able to offer a million dollar prize, after all, means selling five million tickets."

"I envisage we would aim at a single top prize of no more than fifty thousand dollars, my lord. Still a fortune, and achievable with a quarter of a million ticket sales. We would also have lesser prizes in greater quantity, perhaps several thousand-dollar wins, forty or fifty hundred dollar wins, a couple of hundred ten dollar wins, and a thousand or so that merely win the fifty pence stake money back.

"In my experience, people even in Ankh-Morpork find it hard to calculate odds. The fact that winning the big prize in this lottery involves beating odds of forty-seven million to one will mean little. In my experience, people tend to ascribe more subjective odds of fifty-fifty to a bet – they think in terms of "Either I win or I won't.""

She took a reflective sip of her tea.

"You know, sir, it's all about _hope_." she said. "People will hope for the big win, the big chance, to get out of whatever mess they are in, to have that little bit more money that will make all the difference, to create breathing room for themselves, to move to somewhere better, wear better clothes, eat better food. Getting their lives unstuck, as it were.

"My Church has the motto "_It could be you_" That's about Hope too. That's the motto that's going onto the City lottery cards. And gambling is _fun_, or people wouldn't do it. It's fun, it's exciting, it makes people feel alive. That's why I work it into religious services. That's why I'm Chaplain to the Gamblers' Guild. It also means I can keep an eye on people who'd rather gamble than eat, and try to get them unstuck and sorted out. There has to be hope there too."

She smiled at the Patrician.

"Do we have a City Lottery, sir?"

He smiled.

"Do you know, your Grace, I rather think we do!"

Patrician and Bishop, State and Church, shook hands on an agreement.

* * *

And Joshua Nail, full of hope, attended Wednesday night bingo at the Church of Anoia. And he won a small sum. But not nearly enough to pay his creditors. Hope, like her half-sister Fortuna, can also be a right bitch.

* * *

1 **(1) **see my story _**The Graduation Class. **_

2 **(2) **see Terry Pratchett's _Pyramids._

3 **(3) **See my story _**Whys and Weres. **_


	21. The Moon

18 The Moon

_Another dark night. The Star is still there from the previous card, but has faded into the background to allow a full Moon to take centre stage in the night sky. The dominant scene at ground level is a water's edge, a river, a lake, maybe even a sea. _

_Two crustacean creatures, generally portrayed as lobsters or crayfish, have come to the surface, drawn by the intense moonlight, and are pulling themselves out of the shadows and onto the land. There may be a thick wood on the land side: in front of this, a wolf sits, howling up at the Moon. _

_This is the card of the dreaming world and the subconscious mind. Just as the human brain consists of overlapping layers of tissue likened to the vegetable mind, the animal mind and the thinking, rational, human mind in uneasy dominance at the top, here we see only the lower brains. Crayfish are not even reptilian: they lack vertebrae and class as a lower order of life, representing the lowest soul and lowest urges. They are also amphibian and hearken back to the time when water-based life sought to colonise the land. Water is a potent symbol of the subconscious; and the moon dictates the tides. The crayfish are the dream- messengers, handing thoughts from the deepest subconscious up the levels to the thinking brain. The wolf represents a higher level of the brain, but is still animal: it sees the moon, but cannot smell or taste it. And of course a higher class of wolf is even more affected by a full moon…_

The long sad howl echoed across Mort Lake, possibly audible everywhere between Nap Hill and the Patrician's Palace. Sally von Humpeding, philosophically aware tonight's patrol wasn't going to get very far at all, sat on the lake-side bench and waited. In the Watch, you had to accept your patrol partner's little eccentricities and, er _cultural needs_, or you might just as well not bother buddying up.

Another howl arose. From here on the Runecaster Way and Caroc Alley side of the Lake, Sally could dimly make out the shapes of the very upmarket mansions lining the Ankhian bank of the River, both their fronts and backs open to the water. The Selachiis lived there, she knew, and the Rusts and Eorles; other buildings housed the Quirmian Embassy and the Genuan Embassy. _Well, tonight, they're __**all **__getting zer beautiful music of zer children of zer night. Even if it is a solo performance. _

As if on cue, city dogs started to join in. Sally grinned. It must be something _primal_, something deep-down _canine._ She patted the pile of clothing and armour she was guarding. Eventually a pale figure came padding over, shaking out her blonde hair.

"Thanks, Sally." Angua said, as she began to dress. "Some things, you just can't fight."

"A pleasure." said Sally, as more dogs took up the primal song. On past form it took an hour to die down, and every dog in the City, from Harry King's Lipzwigers down to the feral mutts who cautiously roamed the Shades and docks, would pick it up. A reminder to the merely human population that the city was not, and never had been, entirely all their own. As another creature of the night, Sally approved of this and felt a little reminder now and again did no harm.

As the two policewomen proceeded away, a couple of crayfish cautiously broke surface in the lake. They were the somewhat more intelligent descendants of river crayfish, caught here when the lake separated from a loop of the river thousands of years previously. They had heard about fishermen and gumbo, and wanted no part of it..

"I don't know" one burbled to another. "Just when you want a decent night's kip, somebody forgets to turn the lights out, and then you get all these sodding dogs howling. No consideration, some people!"


	22. The Sun

19 The Sun

_The long dark night, possibly of the soul, represented by the sequence from the Tower through the Star to the Moon, is now over. The things of the night have slunk back to their lairs and have otherwise been overcome. It is certainly now safe for two children, a boy and a girl, to come out and play in the light of a warming Sun, in a lush garden. This might be the garden of the Empress and they may be Her children. Else, they are two of the characters in The Lovers, who are yet to make the hard choices that come with maturity. Flowers bloom and the grass grows. Nothing evil may enter or prosper here. _

_Peace, fulfilment, innocence. Children feature. The idea that their parents are the Emperor and the Empress is reflected in the family structure of the suit cards: King, Queen, Prince and Princess. The scene is certainly a balance of the four elements: Air, Earth Water and fire. (Swords, Coins, Cups and Wands). _

_This is the peace and prosperity in which a family can thrive and children may be raised. It also represents the triumph of Law and Order over evil and chaos – lies cannot thrive without being detected in the sunlight, that sees and illuminates all. _

Johanna Smith-Rhodes frowned into the mirror. Normally a girlish-looking young woman turning thirty, amply over-freckled and with striking red hair, the face of a far older Johanna glared back at her. Applications of astringent unctions had dried and wrinkled in the corners of her eyes, giving her crow's feet, and clever theatrical makeup had given her slightly sagging jowls and coarsened the normally sharp lines of her face. Combing grey powder through her hair had turned the vivid red into a fading ginger, and she was wearing padding under a far larger dress size, to give the impression of a body that had gained a few pounds with age and soft living.

With some grim satisfaction, she referred to the iconographs of her mother and of her colleague Joan Sanderson-Reeves, whom she was using as models to practice the essential deceptive skill on. Now all she had to do was to remember to walk and move like a woman in her fifties…

"Em I getting there?" she asked her colleague, who laughed appreciatively.

"Oh yes, baas-lady!" agreed Ruth N'Kweze, who also had a part to play in the deception. She was drably and modestly dressed in old hand-me-down clothes obtained from the shonky shop, which served to conceal the fact that the Zulu girl was a trained and skilled Assassin in her own right.

_Correction, Johanna. Like a Rimwards Howondalandian woman in her fifties. _

"Tea does not make itself, girl. Go end make it!" she commanded, Boor woman to her housegirl.

"Yes, baas-lady. I em a lazy idle kaffir who you only employ out of the kindness of your heart." said Ruth, as she headed for the kitchen.

Johanna grinned. _There is comedy in this situation. Black and tragic comedy, certainly. __**(1)**_

Her mind went back to the assignment to come…

* * *

Elsewhere, Vetinari was preparing a clacks message, to be coded and sent:-

I am aware of the situation, my lady. While the previous attempt to begin the restoration of the Dark Unholy Empire was thwarted by Vimes,**(2) **it is possibly asking too much of even him to go out there and do it again. Besides, there is no useful pretext on which to send him, and his methods are far too direct and blunt for this sort of problem. I have engaged subtler minds, who are of proven creativity in resolving these little crises that occur on the borders of diplomacy and the other state. I have every confidence that you will soon hear of a resolution.

He sighed and sat up straight.

_She has inhumed werecreatures, _he thought. _This is the logical progression in her career. _

* * *

Mrs Ghislaine van der Planck snapped her fingers imperiously. A native of Rimwards Howondaland and recent widow of a Joburg banker, sudden wealth had given her the freedom to visit the Central Continent and tour its varied nations. She'd heard about the tradition of the Grand Sneer; it had sounded like a dem nice idea, to spend a year or so touring all the fabled places she'd only ever heard and read about before. She was travelling light, with only one selected and trusted maid to look after her luggage and clothing. The put-upon black maid sighed, and rushed to refill her mistress's teacup. At least she had got an unprecedented once-in-a-lifetime trip too, away from the servants' quarters and the petty and greater indignities of Home, and the mistress wasn't _too_ bad, when you got down to it.

They were in Escrow at the moment, and would soon be on the way to Bonk, in old Überwald, on a meandering progression that would, the mistress had told all who were prepared to listen, take them to Genua. Then back via Aceria and Toleda, and last of all, to Ankh-Morpork.

* * *

The Duke of Sombresinsol glared down at the intelligence digest Igor had brought him along with the evening mail. It had arrived as the morning mail, but the Duke preferred to deal with it in the evening, when he'd just got up and his mind was fresh.

His teeth bared and flashed in the candle-light as he read the digest.

Apparently an old fool of a woman from White Howondaland and her negro servant were doing a grand tour of the continent. It would take them to within striking distance of his castle during the next week.

Hah! Did they think he was stupid? Did they think that, having only awoken from a long rest in the last few years, and having taken steps to secure his castle and his operating base, that he was out of touch? He knew the new power that had arisen in Ankh-Morpork would prefer to see him neutralised as a threat. He'd also heard that the female, the one who had attained the heights with him in the days of the old Unholy Empire, still lived and breathed in this world. Although the silly woman had forsaken blood and tended towards wearing _pink_, of all the unfitting clothing for a vampire. Assuredly, Margolotta, who he knew was playing for a subtle power of her own, also wanted him gone. Well, he'd deal with her. The bitch was using her power and influence to block his recruiting vampires to his cause. He would finesse that. His agents were out, hunting for the ashes of long-gone vampires, who he preferred to think of as _temporarily absent_, who would have no truck with this Temperance business and who would still think in the old ways.

And they would come. Oh yes. They would come. And then, the werewolves would see the advantages. Serafine von Überwald had a grievance with Ankh-Morpork and had agreed, at least in principle, to being his agent among them. And there were Dark Dwarves who wanted Low King Rhys removed. His agents were also looking for the last few Orcs in the Loko district. Once he had a captive breeding population, and Rogis**(3)** to oversee the breeding…

But did they think he was stupid? He knew of the existence of the Guild of Assassins. His agents in the city had advised him of the brightest and best among them. He had summary files, on Arthur Ludorum, Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Épèes, Alice Band, Mericet, Nivor, the deYoyo family, the Wiggs siblings, and on his desk even now, on Johanna Smith-Rhodes.

He noted that she partnered a Zulu girl called Ruth N'Kweze, reasoning that nobody would ever believe a Boor and a Zulu could work together. And that they had previously used the gambit of Boor woman of affluence escorted by a downtrodden black-skinned serf to get up close and personal to the object of interest.

And now such a woman and her servant were coming close to his lair. They really must think him stupid. Let them learn.

He grinned. He would take their blood, naturally. He wondered what sort of a savour Howondaland gave to human blood. He'd never tried one before. And now two, one of each type, were on the way. He would drink the black one to the last drop. She would be his first. And vampires who had had the experience had assured him _when you try black, there's no going back! _

* * *

M. le Balourd was a suave Assassin who favoured evening dress – black, naturally. An indefinable age between thirty and fifty, a master of disguise, seduction and lethal inhumation, he had taken on difficult assignments for the Guild before and exceeded in all expectations. These days, he preferred a quieter life, transferring his skills in Inimical Espionage to selected student Assasins, and working with his colleague Doctor Perdore on sifting and analysing news and intelligence reports that would be of interest to the Dark Council.**(4)** While he had been the seventh of the Eight initially summoned to the Dark Council to assess this case, he felt relieved he was not going. But today, he had news that would be of supreme importance to the Sixth, who was. He rushed to the quarters of the Assassin who had been code-named "006" in the top-secret mission notes, heedless of the fact he was a male teacher going into a female area.

"Johanna!" he called, breathlessly, letting himself into her rooms. "I apologise for breaking in like this. But there's a _complication_!"

* * *

Sombresinsol had sent a lesser vampire, one of the few he'd been so far able to draw to him, to check the Howondalandian women. This vampire was a Black Ribboner, one who had decided to try an alternative way after a debacle in Lancre, but who had grown tired of cocoa and bad singing. He had lapsed into b-vord again under the stony and baleful influence of the Old One. Away from the self-styled Dark Lord, he felt guilty and ashamed. He resolved that he'd just overcome them, read their minds, and then report back to the Boss. Carefully, he noted an open set of window-shutters in the hostel. _Ah…_

* * *

The original plan hastily set aside, Johanna and Ruth took a covert magic carpet flight from the Guild, travelling by day and night. Their pilot was a senior student called Miriam bint-Elhazred, a Klatchian girl who needed to get her airborne confidence back after an abortive mission to target Sam Vimes.

"A one-in-a-million chance" sighed Ruth. "Who would credit it, that there realy WAS a Boor widow with a maid who are in the same place at the same time!"

"Which came up. Es you might expect, efter the event!"

They had decided to drop the disguise, so as not to raie eyebrows at TWO travelling Boor widows being in the same small town. or have an embarrassing encounter with the real thing. They were also reluctant to place innocent compatriots into serious danger. A new plan had hastily been made.

Miriam eventually dropped them at the edge of a forest, a mile or so away from the target. She was told to lie low and wait there. If they were not back in twelve hours, return to the Guild.

* * *

The vampire walked into the bedroom, where the maid was preparing her lady for bed. He smiled a toothy smile.

"Ladies!" he said, emanating charm and peace. "Welcome to Überwald! The first thing you learn is never to leave the window open!" _And if I were not a Ribboner, though to my shame a lapsed one, also the last thing many people learn. _

They remained passive and frozen while he read their minds.

But the vampire's eyes widened in surprise.

_She really is sixty-three! Not a younger woman made up as old! And no trace of Assassin awareness… and the maid is also everything she claims to be. They really are just an old woman seeing the world, and her maid! Which means…_

He implanted a "forget!" command and raced back to the window. The Black Duke must know this.

* * *

Pausing to meet a colleague, who assured them the diversion was set to go as discussed, and to insert something into the mailbag at the front gate of the castle, Johanna and Ruth then infiltrated the castle grounds, as only Assassins can. Taking advantage of the changing light and shadow of the late afternoon, they evaded patrolling guards, then free-climbed to the top of a certain tower, where they waited, performing final checks on equipment.

As darkness fell, the diversion began. Johanna tapped Ruth on the arm. _Be ready._

The Duke arose with the failing of the light. He smiled, sensing the Assassins on the roof of his tower, immediately above him.

_I will deal with them later. Although if I bind the fiery red-haired one to my will, she can return as my spy in the Guild. When her usefulness is over, I can finish her. _

On cue, Igor arrived with the mailsack. There was a growing clamour outside.

"The peasants are in arms, I hear, Igor." The Duke said. He frowned. As an old-time vampire, he had to respect the conventions. So long as they didn't actually try to ransack the castle and kill him, the peasants were allowed an occasional stirring of unrest. It was in the Code. But he was also a haughty Toledan hidalgo by temperament. There had to be _limits_...

"Allow them an hour, then they disperse quietly, taking their pitchforks and fiery torches with them. If they organise a squad tomorrow to sweep the steps, it would be appreciated."

Igor nodded. He wasn't as sanguine as the duke, who he privately suspected, to his professional satisfaction, of being barking mad, in his plan to restore the good old days that would never come again. Igor had his bags packed and waiting discreetly by a side door.

"And send de Magpyr directly to me when he returns. I want to know why he didn't deal with the Assassins in their hotel room."

The duke bent to the mail as Igor left.

* * *

"Get ready…"

Johanna risked looking out over the parapet, directly above the Duke's tower study, waiting for their cue.

* * *

At the front door, Igor politely welcomed the half-hearted mob of peasants and villagers.

"Yes?"

A black-cloaked shape stepped forward and tipped her hood back, recealing long blonde hair.

"Oh, it'th you. Little Athtrid. You are taking a rithk, coming here! His Lordthhip doeth not welcome Attaththins."

Astrid von Heinrici shrugged.

"I'm not here to inhume the Duke" she said, with complete honesty. "I'm here as representative of my father, who as you know is Burgomeister in the valley. He's not happy with the Duke's plans".

Igor shrugged.

"Nevertheleth. You were educated at the Aththaththinn'th Thchool. You graduated. You work for Lady Margolotta. Ith I did not know you sinth childhood, I would have to tell the Marthter."

"Appreciated. But, Igor, I put it to you the mob is at the gates. Waving pitchforks and blazing torches. According to the Code of the Igors, you are now obliged to grab your bags and run and leave the Marthter to it."

Igor hesitated.

"I think not."

Then there was the sound of a distant explosion, a _whummmph _noise of fire and flame, and a distant despairing scream that dwindled to nothing.

Igor reconsidered.

"On the other hand…" he said. Then he scuttled off.

* * *

The Duke paused at the large square parcel, postmarked and stamped for Ankh-Morpork. There was no return address on it. He picked up his paper-knife and slit the tape securing it along a join.

_And a sprin under tension, now released as the tape was cut, sprang closed and made contact with a phial of deadly oxygen-sensitive chemicals. These burst into flame instantly and triggered the main charge. Three pounds of mixed magnesium and aluminium powder.__**(5)**__5_

_The powdered aluminium provided the explosion, which lacerated even vampire skin and bone and occurred far faster than a vampire could dodge. At the same time, the magnesium flared into bright white salamander light, of the sort that Otto Chriek, the vampire iconographer, found so iminimical. An instant sun erupted in front of the vampire Duke's face. He screamed and went to ash and dust. But unlike the scorned black ribboners, the Duke did not wear a phial of emergency b-vord around his neck…_

* * *

The flash of light was enough to illuminate the two Assassins on the rooftop. The scream left them in no doubt.

"Now!"

Johanna and Ruth sped down the wall and kicked in through the window. Both levelled their pistol crossbows, which had been loaded with plain wooden bolts steeped in garlic and lemon juice. Among other substances.

But the vampire had gone. The charred remnants of the letterbomb were on the desk, the only thing to have survived being an Assassins' Guild compliment slip, printed on asbestos.

"Cover me!"

Johanna produced a dustpan and brush, deciding not to waste time trying to tell magnesium oxide from vampire dust. Industriously, she started clearing it up. Ruth quickly produced a funeral urn from her equipment bag. Then she covered the door as Johanna tipped pans full of dust into the urn.

There were footsteps in the corridor. The first person to burst into the room was a vampire, dressed in a dashing silk paisley-patterned waistcoat, fashionable a few years earlier. His jaw dropped at the scene, and he completely failed to notice Ruth's fast and accurate shooting. Staked twice through the heart, he too fell to dust.

As Ruth reloaded, the next person in was a rather more cautious Igor.

"Tho much for young mithter de Magpyr" he said. Raising a hand, his own as it turned out, he added "You have nothing to fear from me, ladieth. I merely need to be thure the Mathter ith dead. Then I will be going. You were thent byy Lady Margolotta? Of courthe, forgive me. Profethional discrtethion. By the way, you have a colleague at the gateth."

And then Igor was gone.

Johanna quickly wrote a Guild receipt and dropped it on the desk.

"Let's get out of here!" she said, decisively.

* * *

Soon after that, three Assassins and a student were on their way, via carpet, to Lady Margolotta's confectionary castle. Here, they were welcomed warmly. Margollotta dipped a finger into the urn and tasted the ash.

"A hint of pharmacy and upset stomach preparations" she said. "But definitely the Duke. Thank you."

"Whet will you do with him?" Johanna asked, curiously. Lady Margolotta smiled a contented smile.

"I will put him in the crypt with the others. The maximum-security crypt."

She smiled, benignly, at her guests.

" Look, why do you think he had so little luck finding the ashes of long-dead rogue vampires to resurrect? My agents have been out in the field for _longer_. And they know what to look for. It's very simple. You will, of course, be staying for dinner? Lovely! Do you wish me to clacks Havelock and the Guild to say you've been successful? "

And so the contract was completed.

And today, children play happily in the sunlight in the gardens of the Duke's castle…

* * *

(1) Johanna and Ruth are aping the principal characters in long-running South African cartoon strip "_**Madam and Eve**_", about a white Afrikaaner woman whose housemaid does not always behave with the appropriate degree of diligence and respect. Thanks to Nimbus Llewellyn for directing me to this strip.

**(2) **See _**TheFifth Elephant**_, by Terry Pratchett.

**(3) **As noted elsewhere, a _Rogi_ is the opposite of an Igor. Good at painfully dismantling things, but not so hot at rebuilding them, save in new and strange ways… where most Igors these days would recoil from assembling Orcs, Rogis would jump at the chance.

**(4) **Another of those placeholder names in Terry's Assassins' Guild structure. Nimbus Llewellyn had the inspired idea of fleshing him out as a James Bond character, a dashing and mysterious spy who all the male students at the Guild look up to and admire. Thank you, Nimbus.

_**(5) **_I am describing, but by no means in its entirety, the mechanism of a certain sort of letter bomb used by the Provisional IRA and others. People who share a background with me may notice I have deliberately skimmed over and omitted some of the detail needed to make it work.


	23. Judgement

20 JUDGEMENT

_And now it is time to pause, reflect and critically evaluate. If Justice represents the process of the Law, Judgement represents the decision it arrives at. It is also, metaphysically, the resolution of the Wheel and decides the reward you receive for the karma you have accrued. When "the dead" come back to life at the sound of the angel's trumpet… well, none of your past thoughts and deeds are ever past and dead. This is where they stand up to either defend or prosecute you in court. _

Gillian Lansbury sighed and tried hard to conceal her disappointment. She looked down again at the simple sticker saying only _REJECTED _which appeared again and again on the back of all her canvasses. It would be a long walk back to the digs she shared with Danni, with an armload of paintings, and nothing to show for it.

She sighed again. Maybe watercolours really were out of fashion this year. But then, even her oil paintings had been rejected. It was depressing. For the second year in a row the judges at the Royal Art Museum Annual Exhibition had passed over her work, implicitly rating it as no better than that of the Ankh-Morpork Fine Arts Appreciation Society, despite the fact _she _had three years at the Art College behind her and _they_ were just a bunch of amateurs who gathered in an upstairs room once a week to gaze on a naked model. Some of them must have remembered to sharpen pencils or put paint on their brushes, though, or they wouldn't be trying to get their work into the Exhibition.

She looked around her. Obviously with ten times more hopefuls than there was gallery space, the judges had to be brutal in their decision making. But it still felt so _unfair,_ all the same.

She gathered her works together, feeling thankful at least that she'd had the sense to make them portable, with nothing of Koom Valley proportions. Walking out past the security trolls hired to deter protests against the artistic sensibilities of the judging committee, her heart sank.

It was _raining._

And these were _watercolours. _

She wrapped them as best she could in her only coat, and stepped out into the drizzle, accepting this for a mere courtesy detail.

* * *

"Isn't it _great,_ Gilly?" Danni Pouter said, as she poured two glasses of wine. "Both my sculptures are in and one's already been bought!"

Gillian sighed, accepting a glass. She and Daniellerina Pouter had been friends since arriving at the Art College together. She had spent five years marvelling at how Danni, a QAYL girl from good family, had lost her immaculate upper-class accent and developed a drawl and an argot of her own, largely street Morporkian punctuated with swearing and Widdershinist politics.

And while Gillian had stuck to old-style painting, Danni had been doing startlingly new things with the art of sculpture, ones that abandoned traditional dedication to form and composition and anatomy. And what made it galling was that Danni's stuff sold, largely to people who were either entranced or appalled at her usual angry-Lipzwiger approach to life. Very few people wanted a Lansbury watercolour, and they tended to be older ladies looking for something special for the living room wall. Her paintings sold sporadically and for less than $AM30 each.

Meanwhile, Danni's sculpture _A Portrait Of William De Worde And The "Free Press" _(a large iron spike on a plinth, with parchments stuck on it, variably headed "The Truth", "Justice", "Principles", "Ethics", et c) had sold for $AM 2,500. And it wasn't the only one.

Danni paused and set her elation to one side.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry, Gilly!" she exclaimed. "Those reactionary fascist bastards turned you down again, didn't they?"

Gillian nodded. _Not that reactionary or Fascist if they accept the cr.. some of the novel and innovative statuary Danni turns out,_ she thought. _And being Shown at the annual exhibition isn't just artistic credibility, it's a meal ticket for a year. The prices on your work shoot right up. _

"It happens. There's only so much space. I'm going to try the Salon des Refusées tomorrow and if that fails…"

Danni, despite her look of permanent bulldog-eating-a-nettle-sideways and her abrupt manner, was not an unkind woman to a friend.

"You mean you really will do it? You're my friend, Gilly. I don't mind keeping you until you get established, you _know _that!"

"You've been keeping me for _two years_, Danni. Ever since we graduated and shared the rent on a studio. You bring in ten or twenty times more than I do and you've been really generous, you really have, and don't think I'm ungrateful. But I've got to get out there and succeed on my own, if only for my self-respect!"

Regard Gillian Lansbury. She is twenty-three years old. Her clothes are bright and she wears a headscarf nonchalantly tied at the back and trailing two long coloured ribbons. Her blonde hair is tied back underneath the scarf but comes leaping out behind. She wears huge-lensed round glasses and equally enormous hoop earrings, with clashing bangles on her wrists and, whenever she can get away with it, on her ankles. Her clothing and demeanour screams "bohemian" at the world. She once tried Quirmoise cigarettes because they fitted the image. The subsequent fit of coughing decided her that nobody could be_ that_ Bohemian.

Daniellarina Pouter, the daughter of an eminent artist whose paintings hang in profusion about the City, was dressed in her usual ragged and paint-splattered dungarees over a man's workshirt. Her hair is cropped short, her feet are bare, and while her square face reverts to "angry frown" when it can, she is not unattractive in a certain light. She poured more wine.

"So you'll be going, then? I understand. It's a steady job, I suppose, and it gives you time to do your own thing and maybe refine your style. And you're always welcome here! But Gilly, take my advice and branch out a bit. Be adventurous! All that crap about _proportion_ and _anatomy_ and _scale _and _classical ratios_ is so… _Century of the Woodlouse! _There's no call for it in modern expressionist art, not any more. It's outmoded! Part of patriarchal repression expressed via the visual and tactile media…"

Gillian had heard her friend go on like this many times before. She let her mind slip away and sipped her wine…

* * *

_Müning, Überwald. Frau G. Gefaligheit's Chalet Academy For Young Girls of Breeding. Six months later. _

The new Art Mistress moved among her class of young girls of breeding, praising here, offering guarded criticism there, taking a brush and showing a slow learner how to hold and apply it to get the desired effect, and feeling bored out of her wits.

The first two or three months in the finishing school in the mountains hadn't been too bad, and the view at first had been spectacular. Then it had become dull. Dull, dull, dull. Especially since art teaching revolved around painting, the school having no budget or inclination for anything so proletarian as pottery or as unfeminine as sculpture.

And painting revolved around portraits ( drawing and painting each other) still lifes (such fruit and flowers as were available in Überwald in winter) and landscapes (such landscapes as Überwald had to offer in winter**(1)**).

Frau Gefaligheit had forbidden abstracts as too avant-garde and genteely sneered at any mention of the Ankh-Morporkian demon-prodigy Daniellarina Pouter, both in the local _SudÜberwaldeanZeitung_ and in those copies of the _Ankh-Morpork Times_ that made it this far out. Apparently Danni was going from strength to strength and was now a wealthy young artist, and a Young Klatchian in support of the avant-garde. Gillian had not mentioned to the Headmistress that she was an old friend of Danni's. She thought this was just as well.

Moving through her pupils – titled girls together with daughters of the rich who, after basic education elsewhere, were marking time here having their genteel skills rounded out for marriage– Gillian noted her particular classroom horror, Elsa, Die Gnadige Jungfrau von Turm und Hachnes, was idly sucking the bristles of her brush to raise a good point. It was one of her many bad points, and Gillian was tired of trying to educate her out of it. Let the damn girl suck her brush. She had the Junkers mentality**(2)** and Gillian felt, as a mere Miss, she was just another Landser to be slighted and belittled. Gillian had never been more in agreement with Danni's sentiments about _oppression of the proletariat,_ even though neither she nor Danni had been proletariat in their lives.

It was much later that day when the emergency happened. Gillian was getting ready for bed, having checked that the shutters were firmly closed and the aesofetida and garlic paste had been applied to all windows and doorframes.**(3)**

She checked the garlic, lemongrass and asoefetida pot-pourii was fresh and left it at her bedside, filled the gardener's spray-mister with holy water and checked the nozzle setting was just so, adjusted the holy symbols of choice she was wearing at her neck – four, representing the Disc's principal faiths - and went to check on the girls' dorm she, as junior teacher, was responsible for.

Here she found consternation, and the young Elsa Turm und Hachnes rolling on the floor in painful fits while the other girls milled around her in a shrieking confused mass. Gillian was the one who in her generation had been ritually picked out as the serious one, the mature one, the one who could handle any emergencies and crises. She had thought this wholly unfair, but had realised some destinies are thrust on serious-looking girls who wear glasses whether they want them or not. She'd certainly spent a lot of time extracting Danni Pouter from fights and steering her home when she'd drunk far too much.

A girl doubled up in fits and suffering painful stomach contractions was _easy _by comparison…

Re-establishing order over some very hysterical girls and sending the sanest one to find the school nurse, she tended to her patient, noting that whatever it was, it was definitely affecting the stomach and bowels. The haughty Elsa might be a bit less haughty and more humble when she was over this…

And then she was moved on a stretcher to the school san, with an elderly porter who would be of no interest at all to vampires roused from his bed, and sent to raise Müning's doctor.

"And be sure it's a _human_ doctor! We're inviting him in, remember!" the Headmistress shouted into the night.

Doktor Rauss-Elysium was definite in his diagnosis.

"Not food poisoning, liebe Frau. Not unless the arsenic was introduced into her food. If so, why is she the only one?"

"Assassins?" gasped the old Headmistress. "I hear her family may be subject to contract."

"If so, dear lady, you will be sure to get the school fees in advance." the Doktor said, drily. "Now if you will excuse me. There is a bed I would like to sleep in."

Gillian frowned. A suspicion was dawning at the back of her mind…

Elsa von Turn und Hachnes recovered. Meanwhile, Gillian Lansbury had made a discovery that would affect the whole course of her life.

In earlier ages, artists had had to make all their own paints from scratch. This had required almost an Alchemist-level understanding of raw materials available to make colours and fix them to the surface being painted. Gillian and Danni had been among one of the first generations of artists to be able to walk into an art supplies store and buy their paints in tubes off-the-peg. Therefore, Art College teaching in the manufacture of the paint they used had been cursory, almost non-existent.

But she found what she wanted by piecing together material from the Great Artists' journals and working notes, together with access to geological and mineralogical dictionaries and glossaries, together with an Alchemy primer.

_Most white paints, whether oil or watercolour, were deadly poisonous. _Lead dioxide made a very good white, as did certain arsenic compounds. Agatean White oil paint used arsenic salts; Ivory White used lead. Gillian reflected on this.

_But you'd better not suck the brush to get a good point on the bristles._

An idea was beginning to form in the depths of her sensible soul. She was tired of being poor, of working for five dollars a week plus board for being in call twenty-four and eight. She felt jealous of her old friend Danni for breaking into the big time as an artist. Rebellion stirred in Gillian Lansbury's soul. And it had been her employer's suddenly querulous and fitful use of the word "Assassin" that had put it there. At present it was just an idea. But she now knew where to do the necessary research.

She bent to her books again and reached for a pen.

Six months later, Gillian had left the School and was now a private tutor in art. She took classes, both groups and individuals, and for ninety per cent of the time was nothing more than a private teacher.

Other assignments were mentioned or hinted art late at night, and this was where her _special _paintbox came out.

Gillian had worked hard, after the incident at the finishing school had opened her eyes to a different possibility, and she was now as skilled in sourcing ingredients and blending her own paints as any Old Master.

Agatean White, Ubu Yellow, Cadmium Orange, Cobalt Blue, Cyanic Green, Cinnabar Red, and many others, all took pride of place as tools of a darker trade. One where she actively encouraged the client to suck his or her brush to a point.

It was easier if the client were genuinely loathsome or disgusting or had done some evil or heartless thing. Had she but known it, she was following in the same footsteps as the so-called Marriage Guidance Counsellors, lady Assassins who had made a living from inhuming wife-beaters and child-abusers.

She was following them in every way applicable.

She moved around a lot so as not to arouse Watch attention. The first time it happened, a distraught art teacher standing shocked by the corpse of a pupil who had had a heart attack during the lesson was merely happenstance.

On one occasion she varied it by painting a portrait of a particularly repulsive client, using paints which as they dried over two or three days would release noxious gases into his study where the painting hung behind his desk. By then she was long gone, legitimately teaching art to pupils elsewhere.

And finally she returned to Ankh-Morpork, six inhumations later and somewhat more materially comfortable, intending to hook up with Danni for a drink.

She got no further than Filigree Street, where a black-cloaked Assassin fell in step with her on either side.

"You have an appointment to see the Master." she was told.

Her paintbox had been courteously taken from her and had been thoroughly examined by the veteran poisoner, Mr Mericet.

"Every paint is a deadly poison, my Lord!" Mericet reported. "Even those colours hitherto thought harmless have been formulated as poisons. Such skill! Such style! Such…_art_!"

"And you can even paint with them." observed the retiring Art master, Mr Court. "I believe a problem is resolved."

Lord Downey smiled benignly at Gillian.

"You inhumed without Guild authorisation. You compounded the crime by receiving money for unlicenced killing. You even undercut the Guild on two of your contracts. You really leave me no choice, my dear young lady."

Downey passed over a sheet of paper.

"I am offering you the contract of Guild School Art Mistress. It is anticipated that when Mr Court retires in two years time, you will be in place to succeed him."

Gillian signed without reading the document. She was relieved; she'd heard the Guild could be a lot more _emphatic_ with unlicenced Assassins.

Downey took back the signed contract.

He smiled benignly at her.

"Of course, all this is contingent on your passing the Mature Students Selection Course and qualifying as a full Assassin**(4)**." He remarked. "Which you have just signed up for. Don't look so concerned, miss Lansbury, the pass rate last time was seventy per cent. And this School _needs_ an Art teacher!"

Gillian sighed. She heard out the rest in a daze – you will be found a room here in the Guild, you are not to leave the premises unescorted, the City Watch are aware of you and may arrest, however there is a very good Art section in the Black Library, should it interest you. Readers' tickets will of course be issued.

Things were looking up…

* * *

**(1) **The school got through a lot of white paint. Any lingering awe of Überwaldean landscapes had ebbed out of Gillian on viewing the umpteenth inexpertly applied snowscape presented by a pupil.

**(2)** Apparently the Junkers Mentality involves dumping large and injurious amounts of unpleasant things over the heads of _üntermensch_ and peasant _landser_ from a great height – just because you can.

**(3) **You're running a finishing school. In Überwald. A place where up to eighty young girls of ages eighteen-to-twenty will be studying and living and who can be relied upon to float about at nights in underwired nightdresses. And you ask why anti-vampire precautions are necessary? Friend, you are running a vampire magnet.

**(4) **For details of the Mature Students' Course, see my story _**The Graduation Class. **_


	24. The Ace of Swords

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**The Minor Arcana**_

_Gods know what I'm taking on here as there are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana, the familiar sequence of Ace-to-Ten, then Princess (Page or Jack) Prince (Knight), Queen and King. The parents of the familiar deck of playing cards, each family of court cards is slimmed down to King, Queen and Jack, and the only survivor of the Major Arcana is the Fool, who lives on as the Jester. _

_In no particular order, I shall tackle them as the Muse takes me – I can always re-order them afterwards - and I know it's going to be a long slog!_

_**The Ace of Swords**_

_Usually, a single sword, normally brandished point-up. The suit of Swords evokes the element of Air, intellect, mental energy, anger, violence, obsession, and, as with the Ace of Wands, it embodies what is, errr, delicately described as the Male Principle (the symbolism should be obvious... in the case of the Ace of Wands, it is indeed a stiff wooden thing). Long hard pointy things directed at you with intent are generally bad news. Generally, odd-numbered Swords are unfortunate and ascend in a sliding scale of general horribleness through one, three, five, seven and nine. You really do not want to draw the Nine. Even-numbered Swords balance things out and can be quite positive._

_The Ace can be the sword of Law, upholding order and reason, the enforcing of rules and the established order. (Primal Chaos has its own card, the Eight of Wands). It can be a sudden flash of inspiration , an idea, a concept, a new insight on an old way of thinking, a new application of an old rule. The Sword of Law is symbolically held by the unfortunately named goddess Dike (see earlier stories) who, as we have noted, is evolving to serve the beliefs of a radically different set of believers. Certain, er,_** items**_ (popularly associated with the Goddess Dike and her followers), also have, shall we say, a sword-like quality to them. _

_Swords are also generally about communication, newspapers, clacks, conversation, gossip... they say the tongue is a double-edged sword and the pen is mightier than..._

_Now read on._

The hastily contrived holding field was maintaining its integrity, just about. Summoned to deal with a rift in space-time and contain a Manifestation, Mustrum Ridcully had recognised what they were up against from his experience in Lancre. (1) He had restrained the more gung-ho Faculty members from using magic as this would only make a difficult situation worse. Instead, he had recommended to Sam Vimes that a couple of his Watchmen nip round to Doldrum's Pin Factory at the double and come back with a bloody big coil of extruded steel wire, the stuff they use for making pins. The creature had been run to ground in Kicklebury Place, one of the city's market squares, and now could not leave because the dread presence of the steel wire that had been run around the square by a couple of golems, blocking all exit routes. Steel was, after all, 97% iron. This particular creature could not abide its presence.

Ridcully rested on his staff and watched the unfolding street theatre, as did many other Ankh-Morpork residents who had been forced back, with difficulty, behind the Watch safety barriers. These were also of lightweight metal construction and were adding to the unease, distress and general pugnacity of the creature that was circling the open square, a mess of wreckage and overturned market carts, searching for a way out, or failing that, somebody to kill.

_There was just too much iron..._

"Who's going to pay for the damage, hey?" a voice demanded from near Ridcully. "Sixty dozen eggs, I had on that stall!"

"You think _you've_ got woes?" another voice chimed in. "Me, I had a hundredweight of sugar! All ruined!" Like the previous voice, it had "aggrieved market trader" stamped all over it.

A third voice lamented the loss of his stock of flour and baking sundries.

"Who's going to _pay_ for all this, I'd like to know?"

A female voice, well-modulated, suggesting education and good breeding, said, in a sarcastic tone that carried easily,

"Well, you _could_ bake a bloody big cake, I suppose."

Ridcully grinned to himself. He looked across to where Miss Alice Band and her assistant Miss Jocasta Wiggs were standing, watching the drama unfold. He liked Alice. She was alright, for an Assassin. Alice was one of the new wave of Assassins who were, in their own quiet way, changing the profession for the better. Former pupils like young Jocasta were the walking proof of that.

"I like that!" Sacharissa Cripslock said, looking up from the inevitable spiral-bound notebook. "Shame we might already have used it, though. But a good headline never dies..."

But all eyes were on the wreckage of the market square. The unicorn pawed and stamped and snorted. Ridcully could swear it was breathing fire down its nose. It was aware it was being stalked. Another tranquiliser dart hit it in the muscle of its flank. But instead of having the desired effect, it seemed to be making the animal more irritable.

"She went straight in there without back-up." Alice said, shaking her head. "She could have waited for Ruth or Heidi or one of her usual assistants. But no. She's _obsessed_ with getting a unicorn for the Zoo! And she's too _proud_ to ask for help!"

Alice Band had an arrow nocked to her hunting bow. The arrowhead glistened and gleamed in the grey, half-hearted, Ankh-Morpork light. Ridcully appraised it.

"Silver, m'dear?" he inquired, with a professional eye. Alice smiled, mirthlessly.

"Silver-plated, Mustrum." she said. She had earned the right to be on first-name terms with Ridcully; his brother Hughnon was her godfather and adoptive uncle. Mustrum Ridcully was quietly chuffed that the normally reserved Alice Band was beginning to think of him as another uncle at one step removed. He appreciated her trust in him.

"I carry these for weres and vampires. Silver-plate over steel. The steel punches a hole, the silver kills. From what Mrs Ogg once told me, it works for these things too." Alice had once come a cropper in Lancre and had been rescued by Nanny Ogg, who had taken a sympathetic shine to her. (2)

Ridcully tipped his hat appreciatively. He had come to recognise the value of co-operation with other professions and Guilds, and, unlike previous Arch-Chancellors, was not so daft as to think wizardry had _all_ the answers. He turned to watch the unfolding drama.

The stalker, by now, had belatedly realised her tranquilizer darts were having no effect. From the excessive care of her movements and the way she was very carefully inching her way back towards her fellow Assassins, it was apparent she had realised she was in danger and was cutting her losses, as a good Assassin should. The unicorn snorted and turned its attention to the source of the prickling irritation in its hide. It turned, and angled its head, very carefully lining her up just _so_...

The crowd collectively _ooh'ed_ at the unfolding gladiatorial combat. Free entertainment was always popular in Ankh-Morpork. And if it involved one of those uppity Assassin bastards getting their well-deserved come-uppance, then this was a bonus, a blow struck in the ongoing class war. Just a shame it had to be miss Smith-Rhodes, though. She was one of the best of them, even allowing for her being one of those stroppy bloody White Howondalandians.

Ridcully turned to a new arrival.

"You know, I don't think it's going to go down, James." he said, conversationally. (3)

Doctor James Folson, Ankh-Morpork's premier horse veterinarian, nodded appraisingly.

"Equines is always funny, Mr Ridcully." he said. "I consider a beast that size – and it is _magnificent_ – is going to take a lot more tranking then them pissy little Assassin blowpipes can deliver. Me, I'd have doped its feed. With a bloody big dose."

"You'd have thought young Johanna was experienced enough to realise that." Ridcully said. "I just hope she can get out in one piece. Unicorns are _ornery._"

"Exceedingly hornery, mr Ridcully." Doughnut Jimmy agreed. "Thing is, while I'd be the first to applaud her talent with _exotics_, she ain't all that experienced with horses. I think she's just realised that."

"Hell of a time and place to find out." Ridcully said. "Alice, m'dear, keep that arrow ready? You might distract it, at least."

"If I inhume it, Mustrum, then Johanna is going to come after me." Alice Band replied, grimly. "She's dead set on getting that thing _alive_!"

Then several things happened in swift succession. Just as Ridcully was turning to Ponder Stibbons, who was practically chewing through the brim of his wizarding hat in white-faced anxiety, the unicorn leapt and charged at Johanna. Dropping the now useless blowpipe, she leapt across the wreckage of two shattered market stalls, slipping in a mess of pulped tomatoes and cabbages. Commander Sam Vimes was heard to shout

"That is _enough_! Watchwoman down!" Ridcully reflected that Johanna was a Watch special constable – she had been called up at the express request of the Patrician to manage the rogue unicorn situation. Vimes would not let his feelings about Assassins get in the way of a Watch member who was in trouble. Besides, she'd saved his life once, against the usual run of things in his interactions with Assassins. (4)

"Dorfl! Kvetsch! Restrain that animal!_ Get her out of there!_"

The two Watch golems moved with surprising speed, pushing or lifting people out of the way.. Doughnut Jimmy said, amiably:

"Right now, Mr Ridcully, I'd be doing what we in the trade call the Herriot Manoeuvre.(5) It's an essential skill anyone who deals with animals has got to learn sooner or later. Looks like the girl's getting her lesson..."

The crowd reacted with horror at what happened next. Faced with a trio of targets, the unicorn hesitated, but not for long. As Constable Dorfl gently but insistently lifted a tomato-smothered Johanna Smith Rhodes to her feet and began steering her away, the unicorn charged.

Right at Constable Kvetsch, who stood impassively waiting for it. Everyone expected the unicorn to be stopped dead, or for its horn to be bent or blunted. They did not expect to see it shattering into the golem's chest , smashing it open in an explosion of pottery shards. Dorfl took advantage of the distraction to hustle Johanna behind the barriers. She made her shaky way over to Alice and Jocasta.

"Well, I'll just hev to make enother plen." she said, with pretended nonchalance, as she scraped tomato puree off her clothing. The crowd was stunned into horrified silence as the unicorn shook its head and contemptuously shook the shattered golem off its horn. It stood and roared triumph, in a voice as closely related to neighing as a lion's roar is to a domestic cat's meow. It came from the same general place and had the same general timbre but it was a lot more frightening.

"Was that _meant_ to happen?" Vimes said, incredulously. The broken golem reeled back towards the barriers. It had just reached them when its abused upper torso parted company with its lower body, in a tinkling broken-flowerpot sort of way.

"Quick! Get him to Igneous!" Captain Carrot's voice.

"Is he dead?" Vimes asked, as the packed street expressed its collective horror.

"My Chem Is Intact, Mister Vimes." said Kvetsch. "I Would Appreciate It If My Body Were To Be Rebaked." Several Watchmen hastened to gather his pieces to safety, hustling away what they could grab.

"She's going to bloody well _kill _me." Vimes murmured, horrified.

"I don't know sir." Carrot said, cheerfully. "No Assassin's got you yet."

"I'm not talking about _Assassins_, Carrot!" Vimes replied. "I mean that bloody Dearheart woman! I just got one of her golems wrecked! She will go absolutely _bursar_!"

Meanwhile, Alice Band had adopted her sternest classroom face, a Look that her pupils feared and dreaded. Especially when she combined it with an intimidating silence. Johanna looked away, red-faced. Eventually, Alice spoke.

"_Over-confidence, _Miss Smith-Rhodes!" she thundered.

Johanna, sensibly, said nothing. She had, after all, committed the greatest sin known to the Guild. She deserved a rebuke. Alice delivered a scathing professional critique, ticking the points off on her fingers.

"You didn't prepare adequately, you thought the usual trick with a blowpipe and a tranquilizer dart would do it – you _assumed_ - you did not thoroughly research the client, you just leapt straight in, and you carried on using a technique that was having no effect whatsoever. You didn't have a back-up plan in case things went wrong, and you certainly didn't have a clear escape route! You _idiot_!"

_Well, at least its coming from a friend, and there are no students watching. I hope. _thought Johanna.

"I'm not going to ask what the Hell got into you because I _know_. You were so carried away and so obsessed with capturing that animal, that you threw all your training away and you got sloppy!" Alice continued, remorselessly.

"Well, miss," Doughnut Jimmy said, trying to lighten the mood, "At least you learnt the Herriot Manoeuvre!"

Alice unbent and smiled.

"And you know what? I'm so bloody, unspeakably, _glad_ that you're still alive for me to be able to shout at you! Which is more than you deserve right now, frankly."

The two Assassins clasped hands, friends again.

"Right now, we need to be able to wrap this one up." Vimes said, decisively. "If only so I can tell His Lordship that the emergency's over. Anyone got any ideas? And how did the bloody thing get here in the first place?"

"Cock-up at the Thaumatological Park, Sam." Ridcully said. "Some of me young wizards were collaborating with the bloody damn Druids on practical uses of stone circles."

"Ouch." said Alice Band and Sam Vimes together. Alice had been to Lancre. She knew what could happen when you got over-confident around a stone circle.

"Let me guess." Vimes said, taking a deep breath. "You got – _we_ got - a bloody _**Code 23**_. (6) An incursion of _**IC14**_'s. (7)"

"The moment we realised what had happened, Sam, we took steps. Mrs Proust turned up. She suggested to me – quite forcibly, I have to add – that dealin' with Elves is witch business. I was happy to leave it to her. She's the City Witch, Ankh-Morpork is her steadin', and she's got the right, by _seriously_ old Lore. Elves get into a witch's parish, that witch _deals_ with 'em. Left instructions to give her anything she needs if she calls for it and came out here to run this beast to ground."

Ridcully paused.

"You know, I almost feel _sorry_ for the Elves. Stupid buggers never learn. They keep comin', and the Witches always stitch them up a treat. It's in good hands." (8)

"I sent a clacks to Lancre, sir." Ponder Stibbons said, finding his voice. "To advise Mistress Weatherwax we had an Elf incursion. Told her Mrs Proust was the witch on the spot and dealing with it."

"So we might expect our Visiting Emeritus Professor of Witchcraft and Women's Studies to call by." mused Ridcully. "Good work, lad. I owe Esme a decent dinner."

"Elves..." murmured Alice. She flexed her bow thoughtfully. "Jocasta, Johanna. When we're done here, do you fancy a stroll up to the Thaumatological Park? I can round out your skills and _you _can redeem yourself. I bet you're in a mood to inhume something by now?"

"That just about wraps it up for the Elves, then." said Ridcully, with deep satisfaction.

"I leave it _entirely_ in your hands, Mustrum." said Vimes, with a humourless grin. He lit a cigar. He regarded the three Assassins. "Those sodding Elves do not stand a snowball's chance in Hell, and in any case this sort of thing is in your jurisdiction. Any Watch role will be purely in support."

"But what do we do about _that_?" Jocasta asked, anxiously. The unicorn was prowling around the shattered market, unable to escape because of the steel wire confining it. It looked mad. It looked insane. Its eyes were fiery red pinpricks. "It's already got the better of Johanna."

"For now." Johanna said, determinedly.

"Let's make a plan." Alice said. "Anything that can put a hole right through a golem is bloody well _lethal. _We can't afford to slip up!"

"How the hell did it manage that? Golems are pretty well indestructible. I always thought?" Vimes asked, perplexed. Ponder Stibbons spoke up.

"Golems are created entities that are powered by magic. Umm. Unicorns are powerful magical creatures. I suspect that in a head-on clash between the two magics, the more powerful magic wins. Golems are pacifistic. A unicorn is a psychotic killing machine. No contest."

He shuddered, remembering Lancre. (9)

"Hmmm." Ridcully pondered. "remind me later, lad. This would make a damn good theoretical question for Finals. In a fight between two creatures of magic, which wins and _why_? Show your reasonin'."

Alice was thinking, her mind racing among possibilities. She remembered her ill-fated Lancre expedition, shortly before the chain of events started that had led her to full membership of the Assassins' Guild. How an archaeological expedition had led to a fight with Elves and humiliating failure at the hands of the NacMacFeegle. How Nanny Ogg had taken pity on her and befriended her. She'd been given a lot of advice from Nanny, some of it even fit to be repeated in polite company. And the older witch, Mistress Weatherwax, had unbent enough to make a couple of accurate prophecies and add some good advice of her own. What was it that Mistress Weatherwax had said...

_The world is made up of stories. The world runs on stories and fables. Understand the narrative. She who can change the story is mistress of her own destiny..._

_,,, Change the story._

"Where's the nearest leatherworkers?" Alice asked.

"Tuttle Scropes, on Wixon's Alley." Vimes said, automatically. Of course; Alice had bought certain items from there before, emphasizing a need for discretion, otherwise she might call back for _professional _reasons.

"In the other direction there's Mrs Goodbody's on Easy Street."

"They both do saddlery and horse tack, don't they?"

"Well, yes, but it's not really what you'd call their _main line_." Vimes said. "Goodbody's do weapons, as I'm sure you ladies know, and Scropes tends towards... well, you know."

"Es _some_ of we ladies know. Don't we, Elice?" Johanna said, feeling a sudden need to get a dig in. Alice coloured slightly. Vimes paused, recalling the rumours about Alice Band. _It's legal, therefore none of my business, _he reminded himself. But he still wondered exactly what sort of leather items she bought from Scropes, all the same.

"Commander Vimes, can you give me authority to requisition a few items, for the good of the City?"

"OK, Alice. I'll trust you. I'm short of ideas right now and Mustrum's run out of inspiration. I'm half-tempted to contain this thing here, and wait until this Mistress Weatherwax arrives from Lancre. She sorted out a unicorn problem in Lancre, didn't she? Problem is, it takes time for a witch to fly that distance, even assuming she starts out straight away, and I'm not sure I've _got _time. So whatever idea you've got, I'll give it a shot. Johanna, flash your Watch badge and tell them it's on _my_ say-so, OK?"

"OK, Mr Vimes!"

The crowd parted to allow the three Assassins to leave. They were soon back with an assortment of items. Sensing street theatre was going to resume, they pressed forward to the barriers again, and the Watch officers were hard-put to contain them. Alice Band's mood had not been helped by Tuttle Scropes unctuously greeting her by name as she walked into his shop.

"Miss Band! How nice to see you again! You've brought, er, some _friends_ with you? How nice! I've got some new lines in you might be interested in. Originally an Agatean design, but a _harigata_ with a difference, as we've built in some interesting vibrating clockwork devices, guaranteed to stand up to the _hardest _wear and tear..."

Johanna and Jocasta had burst into spluttering giggles. Alice had glared at Scropes; she suspected he might have tipped off the gossip columnist of the _Ankh-Morpork Inquirer, _who had again hinted at the existence of a prominent lady Assassin with an Ephebian Island Lifestyle.

Alice had marshalled her reserves of politeness, and informed Scropes they were here on City business. She would therefore require the following items...

And now she and Jocasta were preparing a strategy, with particular emphasis paid on keeping an escape route open if it all went, as Alice drily put it, tits-up.

"Do you need..." Johanna began, hopefully.

"No!" Alice said, forcibly. "You stay here, in reserve. From what I know about unicorns, you'll be safer here."

Ridcully grinned and nodded over to Ponder. "I know you're too much of a gentleman to say it outright, but you've been walkin' out with young Johanna for over a year now? So am I right to surmise she no longer has what you might delicately call the _essential personal quality_ for safely dealin' with unicorns?" Ponder went red.

"Just nod, lad." Ridcully said, kindly. Ponder nodded. Ridcully looked at Alice. His brother Hughnon, who'd known the girl all her life, had once confided something in very strict confidence about his god-daughter and adoptive niece. Ridcully's mind leapt to a conclusion.

"My word!" he said to himself. "This is going to be _interestin'!_"

Ridcully settled back to watch the show. As did about three thousand typical Ankh-Morporkers, packed anything up to twenty deep down all the major and minor streets leading off Kicklebury Place. Some public-spirited people in the front were enthusiastically relaying running reports back to those in the back who couldn't see very well. People were holding up their kids to see. Watching this second wave of Assassins get creamed was going to be a spectacle to tell their grandchildren. Alice Band was aware she was respected rather than liked. She was also aware of all the tales and rumours told about her – that she only ever inhumed _male_ clients out of a deep-seated detestation of men of any species; that she was a habituée of the notorious Blue Cat Club, of which were whispered many tales of the depraved and ungodly activities that went on in there (10); and the _really_ damaging whispers, that given what was rumoured about her degenerate tastes, was she really a fit person to educate young girls?

Alice wondered if she should not be done with the whole thing and publicly come out and shout to the world _Yes, I am gay! I am a lesbian! Do you have a problem with that? _But Lady t'Malia, her mentor, who knew her secret and was quietly sympathetic, had counselled her not to go public for fear of the effect it might have on School enrolment.

Alice slapped herself for inattention. _Just do the job that's in front of you, woman. And you might come out of this alive. _She wondered if this was the Elf Queen's revenge on her; she had once faced down and bested the Queen of the Elves in a way that had drawn grudging applause from Granny Weatherwax. And inhumed two of her bodyguard Elves.

The unicorn stopped its angry pacing and looked silently at the two black-clad women who were approaching. It looked psychotically angry still, but something else was creeping in. Puzzlement? Alice looked it firmly in the eye. This was it. The moment. It was absolutely vital not to lose eye contact. For a moment she saw something else in the creature's eyes. Some_body_ else.

"I fought you before." she said, flatly. "And I defeated you before. I saw you for what you are. You have no place here. I am invoking an older magic, older than the hills, older than Elves. I have the right. So does Miss Wiggs here."_ At least, I __**hope**__ she does. There's that young man who arrived here from a different world. This could get messy._

The intelligence faded from the unicorn's eyes. It was replaced by something uncertain, divided. Alice realised she was looking at a unicorn that was going through a complex existential crisis as it tried to figure her out. Good.

Deftly, without losing eye contact, she slipped the bridle and bit over the creature's muzzle. It whinnied, but did not shy away. Alice tried to bite back her relief. There was enough silvered metalwork and ornamentation on the leatherwork to pacify it and bind it to her will. She had absolutely _insisted_ on that. It was essential. And the silver fripperies on the bridle were effectively a cage, encircling the creature's head, encasing its brain, working on its mind. A lot of it was silver gilt over steel. Iron helped, too. The Queen would never get it back now.

"Now, Jocasta!" she called, not losing eye-contact for a second. Jocasta Wiggs, a competent horsewoman, swiftly threw the saddle over its back, ducking to fasten the girth. This too was ornamented with lots of silver. Even the stirrups were silver-plated. Scropes had whined about this being a commission, and Lady Rust would not be pleased, but Alice had said, firmly, the younger Rust sisters all attend the Guild school or are recent graduates. They won't argue with _me_. I taught them.

_And now..._

Alice vaulted lightly onto the unicorn stallion's back and took the reins. It made a token effort to buck her off, but submitted to her. People tried to duck out of the way as she trotted it towards them. There was a sudden cheer as the crowd realised the beast had been tamed.

"Oh, bravo, that woman!" Ridcully called. Even Vimes and Doughnut Jimmy applauded.

"No need for the Herriot Manoeuvre, Mr Folsom!" Alice called down. Doughnut Jimmy grinned, revealing uneven yellow teeth, and tipped his hat to her.

Vimes drew close; the unicorn recoiled from the cigar smoke. He discreetly held up a spare Watch badge.

"Alice, is there any chance..." he began.

"None _whatsoever_, Sir Samuel." she said, decisively. "I might help the Watch as a self-employed consultant adviser, though!"

She turned to Ridcully.

"Uncle Mustrum?"

"Yes, m'dear?"

"Do you know a good blacksmith? One who could craft silver shoes?"

Directions were provided.

"And after that, Alice?" Vimes asked. "Where are you taking the thing?"

Alice Band smiled.

"I rather thought to the Zoo, Sir Samuel. I happen to know the Zoo director's _always_ wanted one of those!"

Johanna smiled weakly.

"Although she doesn't deserve one." Alice added. Then she rode off. The crowd parted for her, like a sea to an old-time Omnian prophet.

There was silence.

"Sir, how..." Ponder said, baffled. Ridcully, more worldly-wise, smiled.

"Clever gel." he said, approvingly. "She _changed the story_, lad. Think about it. The essential definition of a maiden, of who has the right to subdue and tame a unicorn, is that she must never have had relations of the intimate sort _with a man_. She must be innocent of the touch of men. And I rather suspect that whatever else our Alice does in her spare time, she meets that definition _admirably. _Look, lad, legend and time-established Lore older than the hills has nothing to say about women who are, shall I hint, experienced in other ways, but completely innocent of any deeper involvement with men. She met the criteria for unicorn-wrangling. She qualified. That's what the old story calls for. And while the creature was trying to work out whether she was legitimate or not, she slipped silver over it. Clever, clever, girl!"

Johanna Smith-Rhodes shook her head.

"Sir, you said there are Elves loose in the Thaumatological Perk?" she asked.

"Better hurry, m'dear. Mrs Proust's on the case. There might not be enough to go round!" Ridcully advised her. Johanna's eyes narrowed and her jaw set. She loosened the machete in its scabbard.

"_Gut_. Because right now I very much wish to inhume something. Coming, Jocesta?"

* * *

_OK, so I've been a bit tight on Johanna in describing what probably isn't going to be her finest moment as an Assassin or an animal-handler. But I was reviewing my earlier Johanna stories and it occurred to me, uneasily, that there was a bit of Mary-Sue creeping in at the edges. (Well, Maria-Suijzanne, or however it would be spelt in Vondalaans. ) Apart from a few initial stumbles caused by rawness, naivety and misunderstanding, her progress through Ankh-Morpork has been meteoric: she's tackled every crisis admirably, won all her battles, got her man, earned her scars, got her Animal Handling Unit, got her Zoo, reformed her earlier White Howondalandian mind-set, chalked up a couple of firsts for the Guild, won Vetinari's trust, earned the respect of Sam Vimes, who is a hard man to impress..._

… _just once, I wanted her to be all too human and foul something up. Just to make a point that not everything comes as easily as all that. Into every life, especially for the animal-handler, there must occasionally be a highly undignified, tomato-smeared, Herriot Manoeuvre. _

_Forgive me... right, the footnotes. _

_(1) _Refer to _**Lords and Ladies**, _by Terry Pratchett.

_(2) _refer to my story, _**The Lancre Caper**_, in which Alice fails miserably to perpetrate archaeology in Lancre. Feegles and witches are involved. And Elves.

_(3) _"You know, I don't think it's going to go down, James." - vet James Herriot relates how, every time he tried to anaesthetise a horse prior to surgery, his colleague, the patrician and very horsey Siegfried Farnon, would deliver this implied criticism of his horse-doping skills. Couldn't resist having Ridcully deliver this line to another vet called James.

_(4) _refer to my story _**Nature Studies, **_in which Johanna supervises the tidying-up after a Dibbler disaster.

_(5) _The Herriot Manoeuvre:- James Herriot again, ruefully describing the essential veterinary surgeon's last-ditch tactic in the face of an enraged bull, a Doberman bitch defending her puppies, a truculent shire horse, or on one occasion a Greebo-like tomcat defending his essential tom-hood. Herriot reflected that at least once in every vet's career, he (or she) has got to cut his (or her) losses, shed his (or her) dignity, and basically run like Hell or die. Johanna probably never got her blowpipe back. By some inter-universal empathy particle, Doughnut Jimmy knew _exactly_ what name to give it. It's like that thing with alchemists: to be athletic enough to hurdle several upturned lab benches, and intellectual enough to know _exactly_ when to leap.

A Code Twenty-Three: Watch shorthand. To quote my Watch story _**Small Medium, Large Problem**_:-

There were quite a few Watchmen in the public area of the Yard. All of them stopped at the mention of a code 23. This is not one a Watchman likes to hear, as its meaning covers _Things with Tentacles, Spiritual Manifestations of the Hostile Kind, Incursions From the Dungeon Dimensions, Tentacles, Elf-Attack, Possible Rending of the Fabric of Reality, Tentacles, and Manifestation of Cththonic Horrors Of Which Man Should Wot Not. And did we mention Tentacles? _ Code 23 was invoked only rarely, but in the past, it had involved events such as fifty-feet women turning into chthonic multi-tentacled monstrosities, and the grim aftermath of Mr Hong's opening night at the fish shop on Dagon Street. Accordingly, quite a lot of Watchmen found other things to do, before being co-opted into a Squad.

_(7) IC-14: t_he ethnicity shorthand in most police forces that only have _humans_ to worry about stops at IC-5. Where species is also a concern, as in Ankh-Morpork, the scale goes up to IC-16. IC-14 stands for "Elves". (For the full listing, see footnote to chapter 8 of my story _**Whys and Weres**_).

_(8) _Refer to Terry Pratchett's _**Lords and Ladies**_ and the first Tiffany Aching novel, _**The Wee Free Men**_, for previous Elf incursions. Alice Band foiled one while in Lancre. (see (2) above). If time permits, i may write the other half of this story - Mrs Proust versus Elves in Ankh-Morpork...

_(9) _Refer to _**Lords and Ladies**, _by Terry Pratchett.

_(10) _Alice was a frequent visitor to the Blue Cat Club, but generally only on Ladies' Nights.


	25. The Two of Cups - love and marriage

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**The Minor Arcana**_

_Gods know what I'm taking on here as there are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana, the familiar sequence of Ace-to-Ten, then Princess (Page or Jack) Prince (Knight), Queen and King. The parents of the familiar deck of playing cards, each family of court cards is slimmed down to King, Queen and Jack, and the only survivor of the Major Arcana is the Fool, who lives on as the Jester. _

_In no particular order, I shall tackle them as the Muse takes me – I can always re-order them afterwards - and I know it's going to be a long slog!_

_With one eye on **Pobol Y Cwm (S4 Cymru) **and thinking in English while having half an eye on a TV show in Welsh – how's that for multitasking? - here's an opener._

_**The Two of Cups – love**_

_the Twos are all about polarities, dualities and expressly partnerships or interactions between two people. (Oh Iesi Grist ac ei mham ef... there is a suspected child molester in Cwmderi. The tearful mother is talking about "my little lamb". Oh dear, given the slanderous association between Welsh people and sheep, bad choice of language there...)_

_The Two of Cups is a fortunate card to draw as it deals with love, courtship, marriage, finding the right person, the idea that no man or woman is an island (except Pamela Madagascar.) Simple and straightforward and not requiring much more elaboration than this. _

* * *

"Well, that went very well, I thought!" Sybil Ramkin said, as she poured tea for herself and the other ladies at the table. She impatiently waved away the parlourmaid who stepped forward to do it herself.

The inaugural meeting of the Ankh-Morpork Business and Professional Women's Association had gone well.

Held in the largest reception room at Ramkin Manor, it had attracted women from all walks of life in the city. Mrs Sandra Battye of the Guild of Prostitutes had spoken to the assembly on how her Guild had arisen from small beginnings to become quietly rich and influential. A group discussion had then ensued on the theme of whether you needed to sacrifice everything to become successful in your own right, including marriage and family. Opinions had varied. Dr Davinia Bellamy, who ran a successful floristry business and who was now forging a second career as an Assassin, said that she'd managed running a business, retraining for a new career, and teaching at the Assassins' School, with having a husband and three sons. You just had to juggle things and ensure he pitched in too, and she had been very lucky in that respect. No, she'd been _very_ lucky with Peter, and she couldn't ask for better.

Bishop Extremelia Mume of the Church of Anoia mildly said that she had never planned to be single when she was thirty-eight. Things had just worked out that way, and anyway her being a priest tended to put men off. She wasn't sure, having never tried the alternative, but she suspected that being single might be an asset for a priest, anyway, as it offered no distractions from the job.

Lady Sybil Ramkin had put forward the point of view that being a spinster for a long time had not stopped her becoming a successful dragon-breeder. But meeting and snapping up Sam had, to her, been the very long-delayed icing on the cake. Marriage to a good man had certainly made things a lot easier, as she now had somebody she could share the joys and successes with.

"It's all about _opportunity_, isn't it?" said the forthright Joan Sanderson-Reeves. "You take what comes your way and you make the most of it!"

Joan had been a successful freelance teacher in what had been called the Finishing School curriculum: elocution, etiquette, deportment, and cookery. She had started out in girls' finishing schools, then spent several successful years as a teacher at her _alma mater_, the Quirm College for Young Ladies. Returning to Ankh-Morpork, she had lost a fiancée in one of Snapcase's pointless wars, and buried her grief in her teaching. This had included working as a contracted-out teacher for the Assassins' Guild School, who had for several years sent her boys with _unfortunate _native accents, or else poor table manners that needed to be remedied, and by the time she formally joined the Assassins' Guild(**1)**, she was already feared and respected by the pupils. (Bad news travels fast). A new generation of girl students at the Guild School were learning precisely how exacting and demanding Joan could be; for the good of their souls, naturally.

"After I lost my Harold, I thought there could never be anyone else, and I just jolly well got on with things." she said. "You do the job that's in front of you. And nearly thirty years later I've been proposed to _twice_, by not one, but two, jolly decent gentlemen**(2)**. Which only goes to show, you never can tell what life's got in store for you!"

The assembled ladies expressed assent. It was speculated that Joan was being groomed to become the first ever Mistress of the Guild of Assassins. Lord Downey, the current Master, treated her with great respect, and the wary caution that comes of knowing the person a couple of paces away from getting your job is a far better poisoner than _you_ are.**(3)****  
**

Lady Sybil had no qualms about socially inviting Assassins into her home. As she pointed out to Sam, a gentleman's agreement applied: an Assassin you invited into your home could not, in good conscience, breach the law of civilised behaviour by being so unmannered as to seek to inhume their host. Not even if there was a contract out on you. Besides, Assassins liked a social life too, just like anyone else. In consequence, the city's professional women's club included quite a lot of Ladies in Black, who all knew about the risks normally associated with calling in at Ramkin Manor and consequently were very keen to ensure there would be no misunderstandings. Besides, the hospitality was wonderful and it made a welcome break from Guild catering, which could get monotonous.

Sacharissa Cripslock sighed. She knew she'd made a _good_ marriage to Ronald Carney. He was perfectly decent, he treated her with respect and attention, he deferred to her opinions, they were both bringing in good money, had a mortgage on a house in Hitherhist Road, just off the Ridings in a respectable area of Ankh, and were tentatively considering children. Yes, it was a _good_ marriage. But a discontented little part of her heart kept thinking about William, and she wondered if she might not have contracted a _better_ marriage.

Mrs Proust, the City Witch, sipped her tea reflectively. She'd lost Mr Proust, the father of her two sons, some years before, to a terminal attack of Chrisms. The other women looking at her understood a witch needed to look striking and it paid to advertise. But it was an effort not to look at her and shudder. She was the walking proof of the saying l_ooks aren't everything _combined with _Beauty is only skin deep_.

"You might only ever get one go at love in your whole life." she said. "Some poor souls don't even get that. But the trick is to realise it when it happens, grab on hard, _and not to let go_. Then you live it to the full and love back as hard as you bloody well can. Or else you're sitting there years on when it's far too late, and being regretful. Regret don't warm you in your old age the way happy memories do. I'm glad of the years I had and I've no regrets of the way I lived them."

There was general assent at this point of view.

* * *

_I'm not sure what else can be done with this. It opened promisingly but the ideas petered out. I'll post it anyway just so I can tick off another card and if any reader has any ideas..._

**(1)** This was due to her profitable sideline in removing unsuitable or abusive husbands from circulation via rather unorthodox food additives. Working for the Assassins, and talking to her pupils about what they'd learnt in school today, had given her _ideas_. For more Joan, see my fics _**The Graduation Class **_and_** Murder most 'Orrible.**_

**(2)** Assassins' Guild lecturers Grune Nivor and Mr Mericet. Mericet recognised a star pupil, a 98% starred-A graduate of his Poisons class, and Grune didn't want to die a bachelor. Both remained in a state of icy competitive correctness over her, something Joan found gratifying and the other lady Assassins, with the exception of Lady T'Malia, found amusing and just a little bit _sweet. _Nivor was certainly_ jolly. _And Mericet was, in his own stiff and formal way, a perfect gentleman. But _nice_ and _decent _are in the eye of the beholder, and Joan was also an Assassin.

**(3)** In his more pessimistic moments, Downey suspected that Vetinari had engineered this situation so that he'd be _far_ more intent on keeping an eye on his potential successor, than in entertaining any lingering hopes he might personally have had for the Patricianship. Or else it was long-delayed vengeance for the bullying Downey had inflicted on the young Haverlock Vetinari when they were both Guild pupils.


	26. The Three of Cups -the Eternal Triangle

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**The Minor Arcana**_

_Gods know what I'm taking on here as there are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana, the familiar sequence of Ace-to-Ten, then Princess (Page or Jack) Prince (Knight), Queen and King. The parents of the familiar deck of playing cards, each family of court cards is slimmed down to King, Queen and Jack, and the only survivor of the Major Arcana is the Fool, who lives on as the Jester. _

_In no particular order, I shall tackle them as the Muse takes me – I can always re-order them afterwards - and I know it's going to be a long slog!_

_Currently waiting on the guys who are going to insulate the loft. Maddeningly, their arrival time was given as "between eight a.m. and one p.m." it's currently 10:18 and no sign and while I'm waiting on them I can't leave the house... aargh. There must be a Tarot card about this... (the Five of Wands? Conflict and frustration?) Ah well. Just write. _

_**The Three of Cups – the Eternal Triangle**_

_the Threes build on the relative stability of the twos. They introduce a dimension of instability and dynamic conflict to a situation. With a third player, the situation becomes intrinsically unstable and however you juggle the balls, sooner or later you are going to lose one. As any juggler will tell you, three is a tricky number to keep in the air at once – but paradoxically it becomes easier with four. So stability can be achieved by dropping back to two or advancing to four._

_The Three of Cups is a card about the age-old eternal triangle. This is one of the situations potential in Major Arcana 6, The Lovers, where a man is pictured as caught between two women and faced with a choice between them. This card is about a sort of state of emotional laziness where the person with more than one ball in the air, romantically speaking, knows they can't keep it up forever but doesn't want to make the decision just yet. The man with a wife and mistress, perhaps, deceiving his wife and reassuring the mistress that one day he'll leave his wife for her – but not just yet. And sometimes it isn't even a man in this position... This card also has overtones of Negotiable Affection._

* * *

Alice Band sighed a very deep resigned sigh and wondered how the Hells she'd ever let herself get into this position in the first place. Donna sat on the edge of the bed and pouted, her pretty face frowning as something of a sulk set in.

_I'm almost certain this is not professional behaviour for a Seamstress, _Alice thought. _But if I draw it to Rosie Palm's attention, it could get Donna into trouble with her boss, and I really don't want that. But what the Hell do I do? _

Alice's association with Donna Catterail went back for over ten years. It had all begun when she was a student Assassin, one of the original Mature Students class. **(1) **The overwhelmingly male class had been taken to the Seamstresses' Guild one evening, with the intention of, er, rounding out their social and personal deportment skills, those of a certain delicate nature, that all young men of Quality needed to be grounded in. Nobody had thought that four members of the Class were, in fact, not male, and could only be expected to approach the night with academic interest, maybe, you know, talk frocks and make-up with the Seamstresses, make professional contacts, that sort of thing.

And not many people knew Alice's particular secret. She'd been forced to come out of one particular closet in a humiliating and embarrassing sort of way – well, nobody likes to have to admit the only musical instrument they can play is the tuba. **(2) **But in another respect, as her worldly friend Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Epées had pointed out, Alice was so far back in the closet that she could see the tail of the Coathanger Elk. **(3)**

Consequently, she had found more use and purpose in an expenses-paid jolly to the Seamstresses' Guild than anyone had anticipated: the shrewd Rosemary Palm had taken one glance at her, assessed her personal preferences as expertly as a tailor sizing somebody up for a new suit, and discreetly shown her a _special list _for clients such as yourself, Miss Band.

"Indulge yourself, as the Guild will be paying, and my invoice for services does not identify either the client nor the specific service provided."

Fortified by a large Zlobenian vodka, Alice had indulged herself, selecting Donna from the, er, _special list. _A happy and pleasant night had followed on. At the end, Donna had sighed and expressed hope that she might see Alice again, regretting that it wasn't possible for them to meet in the normal course of events outside the Guild, as there were strict rules about that sort of thing.

And, in the manner of Seamstress-client relationships, that should have been the end of it.

But Alice had discovered things were not going to be that simple.

_I'm almost certain male customers of the Guild don't get this,_ she thought. _They turn up, pick a girl, do what they need to do, pay up, and go home. No emotional commitment. __I__t's what that Fourecksian woman said in her book, __**The Female Harem Attendant, **__about women needing to adopt a more male attitude to sex. And Eroica Mungbean called it "the zipless fuck". Sex on demand, when you need it, with no emotional ties. _**(4)**_ That's what Seamstressing is all about, surely? Meeting that need. _

He looked at Donna again, whose face had set in the sort of lines that suggested she could keep it up all night if needs be. Alice sighed. This was quite unsatisfactory. She hadn't come to Sheer Street and paid nearly eight hundred dollars just to be sulked at. She dealt with teenage girls all day. She could get all the sulking fits she wanted for free, and more, in Filigree Street. But she'd known Donna now for, what was it, eleven years? They'd grown a little older together.

_I wonder if this is how those sort of situations work out? Rosie Palm talked to me once about how a client might initially come to the Guild looking for commitment-free sex with no need to court the girl involved. He chooses his girl. And at first that's the end of it. He might come back and see other girls. (And oh, how Donna had _**sulked **_when Alice had revisited the Seamstresses' Guild, flush with a hard-won contract fee, and tried other girls out! She'd taken some pacifying and reassurance.) But after a few years of visiting the Guild, a man might find himself coming back to the same Seamstress again and again and again. After fifteen years, it became as cosy an arrangement as a long-standing marriage where the initial flush of attraction had worn off. After twenty years, with neither party growing any younger and the Seamstress contemplating retirement from the active profession, some men actually bought out the girl's contract and married her. _

Alice had grown to know and like several Seamstresses. She had attended several retirement parties and a couple of weddings. They had invariably been sad but joyous affairs where everyone enjoyed themselves and Alice had been impressed with the vitality and _joie de vivre _of the Seamstresses. As yet no female Assassin had actually retired – they were a new and generally young phenomena – but Alice was determined any Assassin retirement party would be as much fun and as pleasurable. It had been at such a party that Donna had tentatively raised the possibility of Alice buying out her contract and setting her up somewhere. It was a lot to ask. But Alice had become quite fond of Donna over the years. She felt she at least had to _consider_ the possibility.

She had asked for a discreet word with Rosemary Palm. It was important to do these things by the rules. There was the Assassin concept of _noblesse oblige_, for one thing, which meant scrupulous respect for the rights and privileges of other Guilds. Besides, the Seamstresses' Guild enforcers, the Agony Aunts, were, in their own meticulous and persistent way, as lethal as any Assassin.

Rosie Palm had sat down with Alice and gone through the procedure. There was a one-off fee to pay to compensate the Guild for the projected loss of revenue through losing a girl to marriage... well, the _equivalent_ of marriage, to be precise, in this case. Donna had just turned thirty. She might expect to be active in the Guild until her middle forties. Some Guild members still turned in a healthy income until well into their fifties.

"Miss Band, we would be looking at twenty-five thousand dollars here. At least."

Alice winced. And then there was the cost of setting Donna up with a place of her own. Even for a well-compensated career Assassin, this was not small money.

"I am sympathetic and I respect the perfectly natural desire to marry, give themselves more-or-less exclusively to one person, and to live a happy and fulfilled life. I would not deny this to _any_ of my ladies. But you do see my position, Miss Band? The Guild will need to be compensated for the Guild Tax it would lose on transactions involving Donna, who is a popular young woman among clients of a _certain disposition_."

Alice sighed. How to tell Donna this was not at the moment a cost she was prepared to meet?

"Of course, the Guild would be _delighted_ to meet the cost of her retirement party." Rosie said, smoothly. "You know Mrs Ogg, from Lancre? She likes to visit the city a couple of times a year. If it coincided with her visit, we could ask her to do the party catering. Mrs Ogg's parties are _always_ a roaring success. They generate _so_ much new business!"

Alice had met Gytha Ogg.

_Yes. I bet they are! _

And then there was the other thing that she had to broach with Donna. It had helped precipitate tonight's mega-sulk.

"Look. Donna. Even if I bought you out and set you up – and it remains a possibility – you will need to know you will not, and you will never, have sole rights to me. There are other people. If you've got any rose-tinted dreams of our being two dykes who'll grow old together in the sapphic equivalent of happy marriage, forget it. That will never happen. I'm sorry. But I try to be honest with people!"

Alice was not a cold and uncaring woman. Discounting Donna for the moment, there were three occasional lovers she met up with from time to time. Any of the three, while Alice was with her, could count on her complete attention and in-the-moment devotion. Alice thought of this as not _serial_ monogamy but _parellel_ monogamy. It suited her not to get too attached to one person, and anyway, she was not jealous. They were all free to see other women – and in one case, she suspected, a man – as they chose. And all three knew of each other, had even met, and two of them had even had a brief scene with each other. Good. As a career Assassin, Alice knew only too well that a contract could go wrong or the cardinal sin of over-confidence could rear its ugly head. Her profession was well-paid, but carried enormous risks. If she died on a contract, she did not want anyone to follow her to the grave with a broken heart. Jocasta, Dolores and Steffi all knew and accepted this. Besides, all three were in high-risk professions. Jocasta was an Assassin, like her. Steffi was a career Thief. Dolores was a high-wire, trapeze and stunt artist who taught advanced circus skills at the Fools' Guild School. **(6) **People in these professions found it easier not to make exclusive or permanent arrangements. Alice fretted that Donna did not understand this.

But Donna... Donna had got under her skin. It wasn't just a commercial arrangement any more. Eleven years of regular visits to Sheer Street had seen to that. She admired the girl for her personality and the way she'd reinvented her life. The daughter of textile factory manager Ronald Catterail – _and what a bloody father-in-law HE would make! - _she had grown up with all the usual trimmings of a bourgeois life. Then she'd found out how the family money was made – by sweating workers in clothing factories, underpaying and overworking them in foul conditions – and this had revolted her. She'd also come out as gay, which had enraged her bigoted small-minded shit of a father. Donna claimed she had cut him off, rather than the other way around. Thrown out by her father, her parting shot had been "I'm going to work as a Seamstress, if that's what it takes. And I tell you what, dad. It's a far cleaner way of making money than _yours_!"

Catterail was the sort of man who would visit the Seamstresses' Guild for the usual reasons, using other peoples' daughters whilst hypocritically cutting off his own for being a Seamstress. Alice kept hopefully looking for a contract being taken out on him and had expressed an interest, but so far he hadn't annoyed anyone influential or rich enough to want him dead. Shame.

Alice sighed. She couldn't keep this up for ever. It was fun and it was nice to be desired and even lusted after. But something had to give. Her working day, and sometimes nights, at the Guild School were energetic enough. Keeping three lovers plus an additional Seamstress might just possibly prove to be too much. She wasn't just burning the candle at both ends, she'd split it down the middle and was holding a match there, too.

But in the exhilaration of completing a contract and coming out alive, she needed, wanted, must have, sex. There was nothing else for it. And it had become her ritual to celebrate her renewed life, and the fact she hadn't been killed yet, by visiting the Seamstresses' Guild and having a woman. Usually, drat it, Donna, who was the beneficiary of her enhanced libido at these times.

And on one occasion, she'd brought her assistant and protégé Jocasta Wiggs here, ostensibly to widen Jocasta's experience. While boys at the Guild School, at roughly sixteen or seventeen, were brought to the seamstresses in small well-managed groups (it was the expectation that the Guild would school them in ALL the skills necessary to equip a young gentleman for his place in society), their female classmates were subjected to a double standard: upper class expectations for them was that they remained virgins till their wedding day. It was the role of the female teachers to police this and discourage any deeper liaisons between the sexes. Jocasta was different. She had become Alice's lover shortly after graduating, when they had brought off a contract together.**(7)**

Now her Resident Teaching Assistant, Jocasta had flourished under Alice's personal guidance. Alice had brought her here as a "thank you", and as a clear hint to her not to fall too deeply in love with her former teacher. Alice had asked for Donna – _as usual – _and she had been interested that Jocasta's eventual choice from the Special List had been an older Seamstress in her late fifties, although shapely, well-kept, and capable of passing for twenty years younger. The four of them had opted to share a room and had enjoyed a different and eventful sort of night. Donna had not refrained from swapping partners, she had noted, and Alice had taken the opportunity to try out Sandra, the older woman. She had approved of Jocasta's choice. It showed a discerning eye.

She pulled her mind back to the present. Who would she drop? And could she do it without generating bitterness or ill-will? Dolores? _No, unthinkeable. She's nearer my own age than Cass or Steffi, in fact a few years older than me. She's well-travelled, urbane, witty, clever. I've always had a soft spot for Latatians, fiery passionate Toledan-speakers... _

Alice sat down next to Donna and put an arm around her.

"Look. I can't promise anything. But there are a couple of fifty thousand dollar contracts on the books right now. I'll check them out and if I choose to take one... well, then we'll see. And I've heard of a couple of flats on King's Way that are up for sale."

_And if it gets me killed, I'll come back and bloody well haunt you. I'll go for Zombie status. Do Zombies have sex?_ _Well, they say strong unfulfilled drives and desires bring you back as a Zombie, and my libido is raging right now._

Donna looked up and the old radiant smile was back.

"Alice" she said. "I think I love you."

"Yes." said Alice. "That's what I'm afraid of."

And the Seamstress was suddenly professional again... Alice gave herself to the moment. Tomorrow could wait.

* * *

**(1) **See chapter 25 of my novella, _**The Graduation Class.**_

**(2) **As per Guild requirements that the Assassin must be able to demonstrate that they can play at least one musical instrument fluently.

**(3) **A unique and endangered large deer whose habitat is the common wardrobe. It is a placid and understanding beast that doesn't mind you hanging your clothes on its antlers and, if you can put up with the all-pervading smell, makes a useful and engaging house-pet. This creature is further described in Miss Felicity Beedle's engaging work, _**The World of Poo. **_

**(4) **Several feminist writers are being parodied here. On Roundworld, Erica Jong was a militant feminist whose novel, _**Fear of Flying**_, expounded exactly this theme. On the Disc, Eroica Mungbean was arraigned before the Patrician for indecency and obscene publication as were her first publishers, Goatbergers, who at the time had launched their _Spare Rib From Named Animal With Hoisin Sauce_ imprint.**(5)** This was aimed at capturing the growing militant feminist market and hoovering up their dollars. Vetinari's attitude to militant feminists was shown to be in the same general area as his thoughts about mime artists and modern artists, although not nearly as virulent. Ms Mungbean was invited to conduct further research on the oppression of women in the female section of the Tanty, with four months in which to make a _really thorough_ field study. People wanting copies of her books now have to illegally import them from Pseudopolis or Quirm.

**(5) **They were really trying hard. But like Leonard of Quirm, they couldn't quite get the phrasing right.

**(6) **See my story _**Clowning Is A Risky Business.**_

**(7) **See my story_** Career Guidance. **_


	27. Keeping The peace: The Ace of Wands

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**The Minor Arcana**_

_Gods know what I'm taking on here as there are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana, the familiar sequence of Ace-to-Ten, then Princess (Page or Jack) Prince (Knight), Queen and King. The parents of the familiar deck of playing cards, each family of court cards is slimmed down to King, Queen and Jack, and the only survivor of the Major Arcana is the Fool, who lives on as the Jester. _

_In no particular order, I shall tackle them as the Muse takes me – I can always re-order them afterwards - and I know it's going to be a long slog!_

_**The Ace of Wands**_

_The Ace of Wands has a lot in common with the Ace of Swords. Both are rigid implements that may be used for active pointing and thrusting. For this reason, both cards represent aspects of what is coyly described as The Male Principle. But while the bladed-metal Sword represents the element Air and the process of thought and intellect, the dull wooden Wand represents the element of Fire and the process of insight and intuition. (Wood feeds the fire in which metal is smelted, after all.) _

_An essential difference lies in the combat uses of the Aces. The sword is clearly an offensive weapon with a sharp edge, devised to cut, slash and thrust and cause damage. The wand – in its form as a staff or a stave or a truncheon – is there to defend. It guards, it wards off, it prevents damage being received. It can resolve a fight while causing the minimum of damage. Staves protect and serve..._

Commander Vimes sat in his office. The coffee grew cold, unheeded, in the mug on his desk. The cigar sat in the ashtray burning down to a stub of its own volition.

Vimes was not given to introspection, but he watched the cigar burn itself down. It was one of the very best the Disc could offer, from the island of Toledan Sumtri, a Melliuso y Gretaliña. **(1)** The cigar was long, golden-brown, wrapped in an ornate red-and-silver band halfway down its length, and glowed a dull fiery red at the business end. Vimes frowned. It reminded him of... putting aside the thought of _sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, _and not caring to be reminded of other associations, he picked it up and read the small print on the label. _Melliuso y Gretaliña. i_t read. With, in smaller print beneath, _ Una tabla de planchar y un bolardillo de laton. _

Vimes painfully reassembled the Toledan. It was another of those languages you needed a smattering of to be able to talk to ethnic minority groups. _An ironing board and a small brass bollard? h_e wondered. He'd have to ask Pessimal or Carrot. Between them they knew nearly everything.

From outside the window came the irregular clash of wood on wood. There was a class on, he reflected, in appropriate use of the truncheon. He thought he'd refrain from loafing down later, and not deliver a completely deniable lesson in the _innappropriate_ use of the truncheon. It was an informal skill Watchmen deserved not to be taught, after all, and could make a difference in a fight. His thoughts wandered again, as he relished a rare spell of inactivity. Special Constable Hancock, a well-meaning menace, had petitioned him for a chance to teach quarterstaff fighting to Watchmen. Vimes approved, cautiously, and had requested Hancock to put a notice up for people who might want to learn another useful skill in their own time. Against all expectations, Hancock was actually quite skilful at it, and enthused wildly about a martial art that was rooted firmly in Ankh-Morporkian culture and tradition. Vimes privately thought that if you _really _wanted to know about how to effectively wield four or five feet of wooden club, you'd nip down to the Koom Valley Halls on Victor's Retreat, where they taught Malicious Morris Dancing. The Lancre School was taught on a Thursday night, to advanced learners who'd signed the standard disclaimer to say it was entirely at their own risk. **(2)**. Well-founded rumour had it that the shadowy and mysterious Ninja Morrismen of New Ankh had talent scouts there , and any particularly gifted amateur might be discreetly invited to... another... training arena, where other skills were taught.

Vimes reflected that if he could infiltrate a Watchman into the Ninja Morrismen, he'd at last be able to get a handle on this mysterious group, who sought no publicity. It bothered him that there were groups in the city of whom the Watch had no knowledge. Even a hint, a basic flash of intuition into what the Ninja Morrismen were about, would be useful. He distrusted secretive groups who taught potentially lethal fighting methods. They made his policeman's soul _twang. _

Vimes sighed, relaced the cigar in the ashtray – it was one of the really expensive ones Sybil bought for him, and Sumtri was said to be the Disc's centre of excellence in cigar-making. They were to Pantweeds what the MacAbre was to Jimkin's Old Bearhugger. Bewilderforce Gumption sold them at horribly extortionate proces.

He picked up the Watch Commander's Truncheon of Office. A slim but sturdy rosewood stick, ornated in silver. Vetinari had wished it on him. The silver tracery spelt out phrases in Latatian like "I Protect and Serve" and "Keeper of the King's Peace."

Sometimes, Vimes thought, you had to keep the King's Peace by belting somebody _really hard _over the head with it. He frowned again. In the really old days, hadn't there been such a thing as the Sceptre, to be held only by the anointed and rightful King and carried by him alongside the King's Sword? A symbolic reminder of some sort, that the King's sword was for war, the King's sceptre was for peace and prosperity, and a _really_ good King had to deliver both... Carrot acknowledged the Baton of Office, but even when acting Watch Commander, politely refused to touch it or carry it. And if _anyone _was aware of the symbolism, it was Carrot. Carrot had once shaken his head and said "The sword's enough, sir." Vimes had not pressed him.

He replaced the baton in the special rack on his desk. It usually lived there, a reminder this was the Watch Commander's desk.

The other group within the Watch that gave the baton special significance had been Tugelbend, the only Watch wizard, and the two Air Police witches, Irina and Olga. Vimes winced. He knew he'd once vowed there would never be magic users in the Watch. But Tugelbend was sensible and has once saved Vimes' life; the two witches had come with their own broomsticks, which was a great saving, and were a great addition to the Air Police. And hell's bells, there was even an Assassin in the Watch these days – _two,_ now - but both were impeccable and very useful Special Constables. Johanna Smith-Rhodes had been the first; then, after Vetinari pointed out that he'd been fending diplomatic protests from the bloody Kwa'Zulus about there being a White Howondalandian in the Watch, he'd taken on the N'Kweze girl to ensure parity. Even though he'd protested that Precious Jolson counted as a Black Howondalandian by ethnicity.

Vetinari had shook his head and pointed out that Precious was, to all intents and purposes, an Ankh-Morpork city girl, albeit with far darker skin, and in any case was a Matabele. The Zulus had been insistent and wanted one of their own in the Watch. Johanna had suggested Ruth N'Kweze. Vimes had been grateful for her. She'd tagged along on the Night of the Were-Leopards and had given sterling service, being instrumental in closing the case. **(3) **

Vimes winced again as new associations formed. _Broomsticks. The Wizard's Staff. Assegais. _All variants on the same theme. Olga Romanoff had said about the Baton:

"That's _Boffo_, Mr Vimes. In a sense it's a magic wand."

Damn it, the girl had been correct. Good insight, there.

He grinned. He recalled that an insufferable Wizard with an exaggerated sense of his pulling power had made a clumsy pass at Sally von Humperdinck. What was his name? Oh yes, Goatley. Bernard Goatley. _A wizard gets a skull ring and thinks he's God's Gift..._

He'd said, suggestively, that a Wizard's staff has a knob on the end. Why not feel mine and find out?

Sally had stared back at him, waited for a moment or two, and broken the silence with

"Yes. Which end is the knob on, exactly?"

Vimes grinned. That just about summed up most wizards...

* * *

**(1) **Melliuso_ y Gretaliña_:- Melleus and Gretalina, the greatest tragic love story on the Disc. A searing romance conducted despite the two lovers being born two hundred years apart on two different continents. (History Monks may have been involved.) In the end, the Gods took pity on them and turned them into an ironing board and a small brass bollard. Look, Gods don't need to give reasons.

**(2) **This was sponsored via the Lancre Embassy's Cultural Attache, Bert Weaver, who had a day job humping coal on the docks. The Embassy of the Kingdom of Lancre is a cheerful part-time affair run by any Lancre citizen with a few hours to spare who doesn't mind putting the Ambassadorial sash on. The Embassy occupies a couple of rooms over a coal-wharf on Two Pint Dock.

**(3) **See my story **_Whys and Weres. _**A previously undisclosed detail is that after helping close the case, Ruth N'Kweze eventually became the second Watch Assassin Special Constable. Vimes could hardly have refused her.


	28. The World

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**Major Arcana 21: The Universe**_

_21: The Universe_

_how could I have missed one entire Major Arcana card? But I did and this is it. Also known as Aeon, The Universe, or The World, this is the culmination of the Tarot journey. The Fool has passed through every station and visited every destination and learned new wisdom at each stop. Now the Perfected Fool is master of his world, at the top of the Wheel, and the cycle is closed._

_And then begins again, like those computer games where you slog and fight to ascend a level or get to the end, only to get _**THE WINNER IS YOU **_flashing up on screen for three seconds before it all begins again. _

_And while you are thinking "Is that it? Is that all I get?" the scene shifts and the picture fades and you are once again The Fool, on that cliff top with the dog barking at your heels. _

_This card is about completion, the end of one cycle and the beginning of another, of earning the experience points, ascending to the next curve of the spiral and looking down at where you were and wondering how a younger you could have been so dumb/ stupid/ behaved like that. This card is Recursion. The serpent Ourobourus, encircling the world with its tail in its mouth. (Some versions of this card have the World-Serpent as a motif)_

_Of course, another way for the Fool to complete the cycle and begin again, carrying over a degree of enhanced wisdom and a necessary karmic bundle, is..._

The family huddled around the bedside leaned in, expectantly. The old man in the bed had been the de facto Headman, Sage, Leader and Venerable Elder of the sprawling and rather unique township for as long as anyone could recall. He'd even been _born_ here, a long time ago. Many of the people in the village of Nepas Ultra had _arrived_ here, in the usual course of events, slightly traumatised but grateful for a new lease on life. And now the Sage was dying, his time was up.

The white-haired old man smiled weakly up at his descendants, who ranged right down to toddlers and babes in arms. It had been a good life, but it was now time to depart. There was one thing left to do. He noticed, vaguely, the space that had opened up in the throng surrounding what in a few seconds would be his deathbed. Was that a shimmering in the air just there/ not a lot of time left, then. He gestured, weakly. The extended family drew closer.

He had to say this. He had to say it now. A hundred and seven years old, and a lifetime of hard work alternating with philosophical reflection, out here on Nepas Ultra, had crystallised into a single moment of Illumination, of diamond-sharp realisation, now that he stood on the brink of another Edge and was about to fall over...

"I have the Secret." he whispered, hardly audibly. "Before I go, I must relate it. I have the Secret of Life, The Universe, and Every..."

There was a shimmering and whooshing in the air that only the old man could see.

"You bastard." he said, sitting up in bed as the blue thread of Life snapped, recoiled, and was gone. He didn't bother looking down at himself lying in bed: he knew what he'd see. There was no point, really.

"You complete _bastard_. Couldn't you have waited a few seconds? That's not much to ask, a hundred and seven years and a few last seconds. That's neither here nor there to you."

Death stood impassively as the hourglass in his bony hand popped out of existence. In his other hand, the scythe snapped itself closed.

I'M SORRY YOU FEEL THAT WAY. He said. BUT YOU CAN'T HAVE PEOPLE REVEALING THE ULTIMATE SECRET ON THEIR DEATHBED. CAN'T BE DONE. SORRY.

Around the deathbed, the family looked at each other as the corpse began cooling and emitted a last dying rattle. The second-oldest man in the room, the dead man's brother, realised as he leant in close that he was now Headman and Sage by default. A hundred and one years old, he paused, trying to decipher words in the last breath.

_This had better be good, _he thought. He'd had little glimmerings of Illumination over the past few years. He frowned. Had that been...

"Well?" his daughter nudged him, impatiently.

The old man and new Sage paused.

"I think he said something... about _Forty-two?" _

Not unkindly, Death ushered the former Headman and Sage away from the throng. He reached down and scratched a purring appreciative cat behinds the ear. Cats had found their own way to Nepas Ultra on the not unreasonable grounds that where there were humans, there was a warm dry place and a free meal.

IT WOULD JUST CAUSE TOO MUCH BOTHER IF THEY KNEW. NOW COME AWAY, MY FRIEND. LIFE IS FOR THE LIVING.

They walked through a suddenly intangible wall and into thin air. The former Sage looked down and up at the improbable village of Nepas Ultra for the last time. The houses had been scavenged from shipwrecks and flotsam and other materials that had, in the normal course of events, come their way. Stairs and ladders connected the various levels. The general visual impression was of a desirably upscale shanty town, built up and down the Edge as and where Nature allowed. The Rimfall thundered and gleamed and sparkled in the near distance. He looked out to the Catchnets. Hmm, Number Three needed to be swung in and emptied. Looked like a couple of new arrivals in there... he shook himself. It wasn't his problem anymore.

"I wonder where it all goes." he mused, thoughtfully. "You'd think all the rivers and seas up there would have emptied by now."

He'd never walked on the Upper Disc, but he'd heard the stories from those who had, and read some of the books they occasionally got, dried out, and placed in the Library. He still found it hard to visualise places where people built Along rather than Up.

ARRANGEMENTS ARE MADE. Death said, neutrally.

The old man sighed. Looking back, he said a conditionally final goodbye. He had, after all, now become as they are. It was expected.

TAKE MY HAND. Death said. THIS NEXT BIT IS TRICKY. DO NOT BE AFRAID.

The old man felt no fear. Then when the white horse appeared, they started to fly.

"Is reincarnation an option?" the old man asked, as his essence faded.

IT'S UP TO YOU. IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN. WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN IS WHAT YOU GET.

The old man's last memory of Life was the whole of the Disc opening out below him for the first time. His ethereal heart sang with the beauty of it.

_I want to explore this place. There's always so much more to know and experience..._

As he faded out completely, Death slowed Binky to a canter and looked at the next hourglass in the day's Duty. Another day, another ending...

* * *

Ponder Stibbons watched the simulation HEX was running on the Omniscope. It was complex. It was taking up a lot of expensive run-time. But it was worthwhile. HEX was simulating various possible worlds and defining how gravity would apply to each of them.

++On a sphere, such as Roundworld, gravity focuses to a notional point right in the centre of the sphere.++ Thus, the effect is relatively simple, as gravity exerts the same influence regardless of where you stand on the surface of the sphere.++This is how Roundworld works.++ Now let us explore Carrotworld.++

A new world appeared on the screen. At one ends it was a perfectly normal Disc, flat and round, but below the surface of the World it tapered off as a recognisable cylindrical shape, tapering to a point.

"Does this exist anywhere in the Universe, HEX?" Ponder asked.

++All things are possible in an infinite Multiverse, Professor Stibbons.++ HEX said. ++There are such things as Midgards, Middle-Earths which are conventional Discs, but unsupported by elephants or turtles.++

"Wouldn't a Midgard be dangerously unstable, HEX?" asked Ponder.

++No more or less than any other world, Professor.++ For a thing to be unstable it requires a medium to be unstable in.++ Space is a vacuum.++

HEX briefly described the peculiar gravitational effect a Carrotworld would exert and the variable gravitational field that would make life difficult the nearer you got to the pointy end. Then he moved to discussing the relatively straightforward mechanics of gravity on a Midgard, a standalone Disc with neither elephants nor turtles. HEX concluded life would be perfectly possible here, not just on one side of the Disc but on both sides, like two halves of a coin. It was perfectly feasible there could be civilisations in such a world that had grown up in complete ignorance of each other. Perhaps one side had perfected means of moving from Heads to Tails and could travel between both at will, whilst a less developed race on the other side had no such technomancy. The advanced civilisation might be looked up to as some sort of gods or semi-divine race, or else as visitors from other planets entirely, as aliens from elsewhere in the host Galaxy.

+And this is an Ouroborous.++ It is a Midgard world, but with a world-encircling serpent wrapped around the rim, securing itself by holding its tail in its mouth.++ It is no less incredible than elephants and turtles, and must exist somewhere.++

Ponder watched, enthralled.

++And so we arrive at the standard Discworld, with elephants and turtles.++ We know at least nine such exist in the Universe.++ We have observational evidence of the birth of eight others.++**(1) **This told us much about the birth, evolution and mechanics of our own Discworld.++

"Carry on, HEX." Ponder said.

++There are six discrete components of a Discworld as we know it.++If you count those Discworlds that managed to retain a fifth Elephant, they have seven.++ This is not counting satellite systems such as suns, moons, and galactic dung beetles, all of which exert a minimal but noticeable gravitational attraction which is known to affect both mundane and magical tides.++

"Galactic dung beetles are a myth, surely, HEX?"

HEX made a noise that sounded to Ponder is if it were a derisory snort.

"You should know, Professor, that myths have force.++Narrativium dictates this.++ Ancient civilisations such as Tsort and Djelibeybi devised sophisticated astronomy and they have no doubt of the existence of, i _Scarabaeoidea Galacticus. _/i ++Indeed, you would be well advised to believe i/b/u _**right now **_u/b/i in the existence of the god Scrab.++

"Yes, but the gravitational field of the Disc?" Ponder said, impatiently. Galactic dung beetles could wait**(2)**: and Scrab was only a local God in far-away Tsort and Djelibeybi, on the other side of the Circle Sea.**(4)**

++It is complex.++It is dictated by the interaction of six cosmically large masses. ++The Disc itself, the four elephants, and Great A'Tuin, the world turtle. ++ Regard.++

Hex showed a picture of the Discworld system. Lines of force radiated around it, moving dynamically and intersecting each other from several discrete sources, moving and changing subtly with the movement of the Disc and the orbit of various satellite bodies.

++You will see the lines of gravitational force periodically intersect, reinforce, and cancel each other out. ++ Among other things, these contribute to, but do not cause, the Disc's magical standing wave that wizards and witches draw upon as the reserve of their power.++ An interesting, and indeed life-sustaining, secondary effect of this complex gravitational field may be seen in the Disc's hydrostatic circulation.++

"Hydrostatic circulation?"

++Otherwise known as the hydrologic cycle.++ This is the means by which the Disc's waters circulate and are conserved.++The variable but predictably inconstant nature of the Disc's gravity serves to suck the water flowing off the Rimfall into seas on the _underside_ of the Disc.++ These seas are as yet uncharted, but their existence may be surmised.++ Water from these seas is then drawn back through the Disc and filtered by its passage through the rock and substrata.++Dwarfs and Trolls are aware of underground rivers and lakes and have long capitalised on these as sources of water in seriously deep mines and caverns.++ The water continually cycles back to the surface and replenishes the rivers and seas we can see.++ At places where there is a gravity nexus, such as the Great Nef Desert, no water at all reaches the surface and indeed is actively diverted away, and has done for millenia upon millenia.++ Such water from the Rimfall as is vaporised into steam is lighter and is drawn up in the form of clouds.++As every condition must have an opposite, there are areas of the Disc which have an higher than average rainfall.++ Llamedos, for instance, has the phenomena of rain volcanoes, which return water to the system in the form of dense black rainclouds.++ Indeed, Llamedos is a net producer of rain.++ You have heard of the famous Rain Mines of Llamedos?++

Excited, Ponder listened to the summation, intellectually grasping what HEX was telling him. He watched the print-out writing itself. This, he thought, would be good for a research paper in the _Scientifick Pseudopolitian. _And another little victory over the intellectual opposition at Braseneck... he frowned.

"Do you hear anything, HEX?"

There was a distant and growing whistling sound followed by a loud noise and an impact that made the ground shake. The distant sound of large heavy things falling to earth made Ponder wince. Hex's recording quill leapt up and down the paper.

"Whoops..." said Ponder Stibbons, and he ran to the door of the HEM. He heard a distant dopplering bellow of "StiBBBBONS!" as he looked at the damage. It had only been a _small_ meteorite, but it was enough: the impact crater was right in the middle of the courtyard and several windows had broken.

Ponder looked up.

"Scrab, I believe." he said, fervently. "I believe you exist. Just spare me the wrath of Mustrum Ridcully, that's all!"

* * *

Dai Laughin trudged up the pathway to the Twyllglaw Rainiery, as he did every working shift. He huddled in his heavy-duty raincoat and thought longingly to his annual holiday down in Quirm, where he actually got to glimpse the sun now and again and there was an evens chance of staying dry. But rain-mining was well-paid work, and the Mine was forward thinking: it employed an Igor these days to deal with outbreaks of trench-foot and fungal infections.

Llamedos was one of very, very, few places on the disc where human expertise in mining even approached that of the Dwarfs. Indeed, men and Dwarfs worked in harmony alongside each other, pooling and sharing their skills, and other rare species on the disc such as mer-people and nixies and naiads found both sanctuary and gainful employment.**(5)**

He exchanged a _**bore'da! w**_ith Dai Llincode, the gateman, and clocked in. _Another day, another dollar..._

It was a fairly easy shift in Pit Number Eleven, manning the pump that diverted the flow from the deep wells. Taming the rain-volcano here at Mynnydd Glwyb had been a triumph of co-operation between Men and Dwarfs. But then, they all spoke the same language and counted each other as Llamedosian. Mining of any sort created its own brotherhood. OK, so when it came to _pel-y-troed,_ fifteen-a-side football, the Dwarfs played in their own Little League.**(7)**

"Prevailing wind Rimwards by Widdershins. Release fifty million cubic feet of number five nimbus. Should be over Ankh-Morpork by tomorrow."

"Fifty million, number five." repeated Dai. He and a dwarf workmate set about moving the wheel that opened the main valve. A rumble of pent-up pressure began somewhere deep in the earth. Under its own pressure, fifty million gallons of water vapour would soon emanate from the volcano's crater. Although the sides of the mountain were festooned with signs saying "Perygl!" and "Danger!" in several different languages and orthographies, it didn't put off unwary or thrill-seeking mountaineers.

"Good man, Dai!" said the dwarf.

Dai grinned. Tisian Twllcor the dwarf was alright by him. Dai Derdeath the supervisor gave a thumbs up.

"Next job's a twenty million number six. Just waiting for this lot to clear and the wind to change. Should move a couple of points nearer to Rimwards, then we can send one to Quirm." he said.

The three of them paused, reflectively.

"Wonder where it all comes from?" mused Tisian, the dwarf. "I mean, there seems to be no shortage of it."

"Apparently it all slops off the side of the world at the Rimfall, gets gathered up and comes back again." said Dai Derdeath.

There was a pause. None of the three had ever seen the Rimfall.

"Or so that's what they say." Dai Derdeath added.

"Makes a kind of sense." Dai Laughin said, speculatively.

"What goes around, comes around." said Tisian. He sneezed.

"Sorry, that's working in the wet for you." the Dwarf apologised. He had a permanent red nose.

"They say Vetinari wants to open up the old canals and aqueducts again. The big city's growing all the time, and they need a good water supply."

"Bloody _Saes_, stealing our water!" Dai Laughin said, automatically.**(8)**

"Keeps us in a job, mun. And they pay for it. Low King Rhys has got Vetinari by the _groniau_ on this one!"

"Can't see that. That old _cachwyr cyfrwys _has always got a way out of it. He'll offer Rhys some sort of counter-deal and get the water on the cheap."

"Still. Rebuilding the old Latatian canals and aqueducts will be one big undertaking. It will cost him." said Dai Laughin.

Tisian shrugged. "I went to see family in the city. There's still an old aqueduct coming in from Hubwards-by-Turnwise. Runs half the length of the city. All he's got to do is do it up and connect it to a supply."

Dai Derdeath pinched out his cigarette as the shuddering of heavy machinery subsided.

"OK, lads! Next job, twenty million Number Six strato-cumulous to Quirm. Look lively!"

And the job of rain-making continued.

* * *

**(1) **This indeed is the case, as seen in Terry Pratchett's **_The Light Fantastic._**

**(2) **Although Ponder did consider his girlfriend, Johanna Smith-Rhodes, would be annoyed if he didn't ask HEX to summate the evidence for their existence so that she might have another exotic animal species to study.**(3)** This trumped the more immediate prospect that a God might be annoyed with him for denying that God's existence and rational for having come into being. Hey, trained Assassins are _nearer_ than Gods. Gods _may_ walk among us, unseen and unheard; Assassins definitely _do_.

**(3) **It would take a _very_ big Zoo habitat to confine one, and Johanna was realistic enough to know there was no prospect of a field study any time soon. Although she had lingering hopes of going on the _next _space mission as an Assassins' Guild representative.

**(4)** Ponder was an intellectual. One of the Disc's leading scientific thinkers, in fact. But on any world, a given is that intellectuals are not greatly skilled at thinking out more mundane, worldly, problems. It's like Mr Nutt, enthusiastically wanting to discuss crowd psychology and the sociopatholgy of over-crowded juvenile rats with Andy Shank and his posse. Denying the existence of Gods causes bother. Well-known fact.

**(5) **Sentient humanoid species with gills who can breathe underwater? You run a rain-mine. Employing them in the deeper shafts is a no-brainer. Mermen for saltwater mines, nixies and naiads for the freshwater, and Temperance Sirens **(6)** too. For any sentient species on the Disc, with the possible exception of Elves, there is an employment niche.

**(6)** Temperance Sirens have learnt from Black Ribbon Vampires. They have forsworn luring men to their doom in deep treacherous waters and instead have knuckled down to earning a honest dollar. They wear a deep purple ribbon to symbolise their form of temperance and now work as a rescue service in the deep rain mines, helping miners to safety in the event of a pit collapse.

**(7) **Nobody called it the Little League where Dwarfs could hear it. Dwarf rugby is very like the human sort, only played in chain-mail jerseys with strictly no axes or horned helmets allowed. It appeals to the pent-up aggression in the race which Dwarfs are normally careful not to display underground.

**(8) **This is a long-standing grievance on the part of Welsh nationalists. Whole villages were submerged to make reservoirs to contain water to feed Liverpool, Birmingham and Manchester. The export of Welsh water to England is seen as a tax-resource-in-being to an independent Wales – England can bloody well pay for our water, or we turn the tap off. There were similar rumbles in Llamedos. But the prevailing opinion was that we've got to control and direct the flow out of those bloody volcanoes. so why not make a bob or two out of it, we've got more bloody rain than we know what to do with... if it rains over Ankh-Morpork and not here, and they even _**pay**_ us for it, then result.

Word of frustration: I was trying to write in a certain textual joke in HEX-speak - where HEX is_ italicising_, or using **bold** for effect, writing in the accepted write-up code for "open italics" and "close italics" before and after the speech. for some reason the formatting won't let me. Damn.


	29. Persuasion agreement - the Two of Swords

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**The Minor Arcana**_

_Gods know what I'm taking on here as there are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana, the familiar sequence of Ace-to-Ten, then Princess (Page or Jack) Prince (Knight), Queen and King. The parents of the familiar deck of playing cards, each family of court cards is slimmed down to King, Queen and Jack, and the only survivor of the Major Arcana is the Fool, who lives on as the Jester/Joker. _

_In no particular order, I shall tackle them as the Muse takes me – I can always re-order them afterwards - and I know it's going to be a long slog!_

_**The Two of Swords: **_

_The Twos are all about polarities, dualities and expressly partnerships or interactions between two people. _

_The Two of Swords concerns discussions, chats, understandings, between two people, who may or may not be lovers. It could be two old friends meeting to gossip and chat about nothing in particular; a career discussion between an employee and their boss; a couple who are friends, or professional peers, or an older couple in an established relationship who are perfectly comfortable in each other's company and who are glad of a few minutes' or a few hours of quiet unhurried conversation. As said elsewhere, the odd-numbered Swords are pretty horrible, but the even numbers tend to be happier and more positive. They can still represent challenges and obstacles to be overcome, or at least talked out, though. _

_We begin by reprising a tense situation at the end of my novella **The Graduation Class, **in which an old Assassin is contemplating retirement, as the profession has moved on beyond the point at which he feels comfortable. _

Downey agreed, albeit reluctantly. Joan smiled, having got what she'd come to argue for. Only Mericet remained in fighting mode.

"Sir, I must protest! In all my more than forty years with the Guild I can safely tell you I have never seen such a degree of feather-bedding and mollycoddling of student Assassins! How will they learn if they are not continually followed by the fear of death?"

"More happily and less fearfully, I expect." Vetinari said. He left the desk and held the door open.

"Mr Mericet, if today's Guild is not to your liking any more, there is always honourable retirement."

"I may well take it" Mericet hissed. "Female Assassins. _Safe _exams. An end to the _misericordia._ This isn't my Guild any more!"

"Many old men say that after nearly half a century's loyal service. Things change. Goodbye, Mr Mericet."

_Mericet's had his chips, then, _thought Vimes.

Vetinari paused and added "No great rush."

_I wanted to keep Mericet on at the Guild and see his opinions change and shift. His particular skills made him the natural old hand younger Assassins have turned to for help and guidance at several points. Besides, giving the dry, dour and forbidding Poisons master a sort of late-flowering romance was comedy gold. But if I'd effectively retired him at the end of TGC, with a "Goodbye, Mr Chips" sort of ambience, and Vetinari himself approving of this, how to bring him back? _

_Here it is. _

Lord Downey sat back and sighed. He loathed moments like this. The man sitting opposite in the Master's office sat expressionlessly, his decision seemingly having been made. He looked completely at peace with himself.

Downey put down the resignation letter, which was short and to the point, loaded with the accepted phrases such as _with the greatest regret..._ and _this having been forced on me... _and _with the Guild having changed direction and emphasis in such a way that my sense of professional integrity has been fatally compromised... _He looked up and contemplated Mr Mericet's impassive face.

"This is all very regrettable." he said at length. "Very regrettable indeed. And I would be sorrier than I could possibly say if you were to leave us now. Is there no way I can convince you to retract this letter and for you to stay with us until a more formal retirement age? After all, Mr Mericet, you are only..." Downey did a mental calculation and reminded himself the man sitting opposite was younger than he looked. Maybe working with lethal poisons for so long had just made him _seem _older. "...fifty-eight years old. Teachers at this Guild have forged successful careers into their late sixties, maybe even into their seventies. It is not unknown."

Downey crossed his fingers, trying not to remember members of the teaching faculty who had lingered on for perhaps _too_ long, such as Mr Lamister, or The Extremely Reverend Dr A-Pox-Upon-Their-Houses Jenkins, the former Chaplain.

Jenkins had been a morass of bad habits, misogyny, and misanthropy marinaded in alcohol, and had he ever had any of the milk of human kindness in him, it had seriously curdled. Replacing him as Chaplain had been imperative before the first girls arrived at the school. He hadn't wanted to go – in his own unique way he had been looking forward to the arrival of girls and women teachers – and Downey had shuddered at the implications of this. **(1) **But the Omnian Church had also seen a need for him to retire, and the local church heirarchy had colluded in removing him to a maximum-security priests' retirement home in the Shires. And Mr Lamister had been retired out of kindness and prudence, before this wholly ineffectual teacher fell victim to a pupils' prank that might have had fatal results. It wouldn't have looked good.

"My mind is made up, Master." Mericet said, with grave finality. "After due consideration, I have decided this is no longer my world, and I should stand aside to let _younger_ and more _suitable_ people steer the School in its new incarnation."

Downey steepled his fingers, an affection he had picked up from Havelock Vetinari.

"Mr Mericet... _Humphrey... _I beg you to reconsider." he said. "If nothing else, you have been resident here at the Guild for over thirty years. In which time you have given absolutely sterling service as a Housemaster and principal tutor in your speciality. But do you have anywhere to go when you leave? Any family? Friends? I know there are procedures whereby long-standing servants of the Guild can be provided with grace-and-favour accommodation in retirement..."

Mericet frowned.

"I have savings, Master. I live frugally and I have banked much of my wages, plus several contract fees for successful inhumations. I will be instructing a property agent to look for suitable premises for me."

"But what will you _do_?" Downey asked. It was common knowledge that Mericet had no friends and only very distant family. He was unmarried. The Guild and teaching had been all his life.

"I am unsure. Perhaps set up as an apothecary. I have the training and experience, after all."

"Hmm." Downey said. He wondered how long a business like "H. Mericet – Family Apothecary" would stay solvent for. Mericet's concept of a headache remedy or treatment for a stomach upset was quite radical, after all. And Downey himself was getting no younger. Even though there was an evens chance he might die in office – he was Chief Assassin, after all, and his predecessor had gone interestingly insane**(2)** - Downey feared a cold and lonely and friendless old age in retirement. He did not want to preside over an old colleague's descent into this particular abyss, a slow and lingering inhumation in life.

He gave up.

"If this is your decision, Mr Mericet. We will of course honour it and ensure you receive a suitable retirement package. But I beg you to do nothing precipitate. Please at least hang on, until we can secure the services of a suitable replacement for you."

"Perhaps one of the new_ lady assassins_ might be suitable, Master." Mericet suggested, with a hint of his legendary dark sarcasm. "If that is all, thank you for your time. I will go and see my affairs are in order."

Mericet left the office. Downey sighed. A little later, the Guild Bursar, Mr Wimvoe, knocked and entered.

"I take it the interview with Mr Mericet didn't go well?" he asked, collecting several communications and invoices that required his attention.

Downey sighed. Winvoe looked down at the resignation letter and raised a questioning eyebrow. Normally he dealt with the financial implications of staff leaving the teaching profession, and tied up those necessary loose ends.

"Not just yet, Mr Winvoe". Downey said, shaking his head. "I propose to sit on this matter for a while, and make regretful remarks about how difficult it is to recruit a new member of staff with both the aptitude to teach, and an extensive knowledge of poisoning techniques and inimical alchemy."

"There is _one,_ Master." Winvoe reminded him. "In the new intake of mature Assassins."

"Oh, yes." Downey said, with new gloom. "But I had other plans for this person. Ah well..."

* * *

"_Now see **here,** Humphrey!" _

The voice thundered across the restaurant. Mr Mericet winced and looked round to see if anyone had reacted. He'd been careful to conceal his first name from generations of pupils at the Guild school. It would not have looked good for the image of the dry, dour, terrifyingly sarcastic Poisons master, had they discovered he had a very human first name. It never occurred to most students, who saw him as a quietly disapproving and not-quite-human Presence radiating a field of deadly mordant sarcasm, that he even had a first name like most normal fully human people. Most pupils who got as far as _"Mr H. Mericet" _briefly speculated that he might be a Havelock. Or possibly a Heinrich. If it got out that he was a Humphrey then life would get difficult. Even colleagues in the staffroom called him Mr Mericet. He did not welcome familiarity. But that had been until...

He was relieved that at this time in the evening the chosen restaurant was only sparsely occupied and there were no other Assassins in there, nor anyone he knew. But _everyone else_ had jumped at the voice, including, unfortunately, the waitress with the tray of glasses. It was that sort of voice. It commanded attention. It had not been a shouted voice. But the owner of the voice knew how to project and they used it like a weapon, in full knowledge of its effects on the listener.

If possession of a dangerous voice were to have been a criminal offence, the Watch would have happily charged Joan Sanderson-Reeves with multiple offences. At present she was leaning forward on her side of the table, her lean bony face set in a scowl and her eyes radiating serious disapproval. This made Mr Mericet's eyes water slightly. Feeling slightly intimidated was a new experience for him. He was aware he was out of his comfort zone in several rather large ways. He was in his late fifties. He was uncomfortably aware that since the age of eleven, he'd been living as a lifelong confirmed bachelor. Since his days at the Guild School he'd been living in an exclusively masculine world. Oh, some aspects of it had chafed. He had despised the bluff, hearty, sporty types who had little patience for scholarly, quiet, and weedier boys, seeing them as fair game for inflicted indignities. But after a while, they'd stopped bullying him. ** (3) **Quiet, weedy, boys who are good with poisons tend to get respect. And speaking of respect...

"Now listen to me, Humphrey." Joan said, firmly, in a lower voice that was still audible over the sounds of broken glass being swept up.

"What's all this _ludicrous _story about your _retiring_? I've never heard a sillier notion _in my life_!"

Mr Mericet suddenly realised he had nowhere to retreat to, no exit strategy against things going horribly wrong. This too was new and uncomfortable for him. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar, which was suddenly getting too hot and sticky for him. He tried to look levelly at Joan, and for the first time he could remember, had to break away first.

_This woman is remorseless_, he thought. _She is ruthless. A born Assassin. _

Forty-eight years old, Joan had won her own reputation mainly by being the oldest person ever to pass the Final Run and to have earned Full Black as an Assassin. Prior to that she had been a freelance contract killer, an unlicenced Assassin who had despatched a variable number of men to the sort of near-Death experience, the sort from which nobody ever returns to speak of bright lights, tunnels and deceased relatives beckoning them on. **(4)**

In appearance, Joan Sanderson-Reeves was slender, bony even, with the sort of purposeful graceful motion that speaks volumes for thirty years as a deportment teacher. She also taught elocution, etiquette and the social graces; and in later life had run a very successful cookery school in the city. A born teacher, her experience had begun as Governess to various socially elite families, followed by upscale Finishing Schools in the Überwald mountains, then after the sad death of her fiancée, a return to the Quirm Academy for Young Ladies, this time as a teacher. Girls the Disc over had learnt to treat her with fear and respect. Returning to Ankh-Morpork and setting up an Academy of her own, the Assassins' Guild had sub-contracted her to take on _difficult_ cases who needed shock treatment in the social skills, let us say boys with harsh, graceless, lower-class accents who needed special tuition. Working with Assassins had given her some creative ideas and she had learnt much, in return, from her boys. Which had led her to arrest, detention, and the offer to legitimise her standing by becoming a late-entrant Full Assassin.

Joan had sighed, accepted, knuckled down to the intensive training, and against all exceptions had qualified. She had endured the more _physical_ aspects of the training, with generous help from the three other women on the course. **(5) **Emmanuelle Lapoignard les Deux-Epées had coached her to a passing grade in Swords; Alice Band had accepted she was at a disadvantage in Edificeering, but had ensured she did not fall off things too drastically; Johanna Smith-Rhodes had nursed and sometimes bullied her through Fieldcraft and Wilderness Survival training. In return, she had helped the other three through the more cerebral courses, such as Poisoning and Inimical Alchemy.

Which had led her to...

Humphrey Mericet had attempted to be professional and impartial in his classes, treating his first four _official_ female students**(6)** with an equal-opportunities degree of sarcasm and mordant comment. His conviction that women were not cut out to be Assassins was reinforced the evening when Miss Alice Band, tired after a long day of physical training, had inadvertently dosed herself with a rather large amount of ergot-derived hallucinogen. **(7)**

He had noted, though, the skill and resource with which Joan Sanderson-Reeves had nursed Alice out of the trip and provided the appropriate counter-intoxicant. This was the first time Joan had stood out as the star of the Mature Students' Class.

And over the fifteen months of the Mature Students' Class, Joan had stood out in a way even Mericet could not ignore, earning almost a full 100% mark in his classes. This had led him to, very diffidently and very respectfully, ask if she would consent to dinner with him at some point convenient to herself. Joan, flattered by the attention, had agreed. But right now, he was hideously aware of a need to placate and mollify. He was also vulnerably aware that he was totally unfamiliar ground, the part of the map marked "Here Be Dragonnes" in large threatening lessons. There was one in front of him right now.

"Humphrey," she said, in a softer voice, "You're an intelligent man. I would go so far as to say you are a _very _clever man. You have been trained to observe. You've known Lady T'Malia for a long time. You've been in or around this school since you were eleven, give or take a year or two. The occasional girl has got past you and gone the distance and graduated. Good heavens, you taught Alice, Johanna, Emmanuelle and myself. You taught Emmanuelle _twice,_ as I recall, the first time when she was posing as a boy and she even fooled _you_!"

"Well, she was thirteen then." Mericet almost mumbled. "I would very much doubt Madame Deux-Epées could carry off the deception _now._"

"But the point is, she fooled you." Joan said, remorselessly. "Be honest, Humphrey. You would have given a starred pass mark to the _boy _she was posing as. You would have backed him to sail through the Final Run and graduate. It was only damned bad luck that prevented her from graduating then. Does the fact he was really a girl make any difference? Any difference at all?"

_Here be terrible dragonnes, _Mericet thought. Had he manifested late-onset over-confidence, that fateful night when he'd asked her out to dinner? Women had not just been a closed book to Humphrey Mericet. The entire library had been closed and barred to him and the road leading to it had been closed, with a great big "Road Up!" sign erected to prevent access. Oh, he'd had the traditional visit to the Seamstresses' Guild that had been a mandatory and much-anticipated part of training. But that had been a long time ago. Mericet had accepted the experience was passingly pleasant, but had felt no great desire to revisit it. He'd lost a virginity he had no real need for and which was irrelevant to him either way.**(9)**

Every so often he wondered if life might be different were there to have been a Mrs Mericet. But life at the Guild was good and the women it employed provided all that a man could ever ask for or need. There were women who cleaned his rooms. Who made his bed and changed the linen. Who could tailor, launder, and repair his clothing. Prepared such food as the abstemious Humphrey Mericet required. All the services of a wife and none of the drawbacks. And so the years passed and Humphrey Mericet had grown older at the Guild, accepting an occassional discreet contract so as to keep abreast of emerging trends in the profession.

And then one day Joan had come along, as part of a wholly novel and unwelcome idea to formally extend Guild teaching to _females. _And Mericet's tidy, organised, institutional, life had suddenly been turned inside out. He had met a poisoner whose ability was every bit as good as his own. Her other essential Assassin skills had been honed by intensive guild training. And what was more, she was refined, cultured, and she could _cook_.

Humphrey Mericet was in love. It was a whole new world for him. Finally, a Mrs Mericet had come along. Or at least, a very good candidate.

Fully aware she had got his entire attention, Joan's voice grew kinder.

"I admire you, Humphrey." she said, letting a little of her own feelings slip. she felt oddly drawn to this man, despite his nearly sixty years of bachelor quirks. And neither of them was getting any younger. "I consider you are a man who is worth getting to know better, now we are no longer teacher and student. You probably only believe women are not fit to be Assassins because you've never before seen what women can do." she said. "The idea has never been tested before. So all I'm asking you, Humphrey, is that you set this silly prejudice aside and stay on at the School. Delay this silly idea you have about retiring. Give it a year. Watch, look at, the intake of girls you will be helping to teach. Heavens above, Humphrey, we're not trolls or gnolls or some other sort of non-human species! I grant you, young gels can be silly and they can be sloppy and they can be maddening – I have taught them for long enough to know that – but they are no different from young boys in that. Besides."

Joan took a long sip on her drink.

"Besides. Look at what young gels grow up into. You taught Emmanuelle when she was thirteen and posing as a boy. And this last year you've seen the adult version. They're not thirteen and silly forever. They grow up into people like Alice Band. And would anyone in their right mind pick a fight with Alice?"

Mericet nodded assent.

"Or indeed, _you. _But I can't picture you aged thirteen."

She laughed.

"Nor can I, it was so long ago! But, Humphrey, the Guild is your life. You would be _quite_ bored and miserable if you were to retire now!"

Humphrey Mericet breathed a deep resigned sigh.

"I concede you may be right on female pupils and Lady Assassins." he admitted. "I work alongside my Lady T'Malia, after all, and I am aware of her unique ability. I informally know of several women who performed the essential deception so well as to graduate. My personal inclinations and prejudice are perhaps blinding me and preventing me from realising what should have been obvious."

He looked speculatively at Joan.

"Eighteen clients, I believe? And most of them poisoned?" he asked.

"Well, the_ first_ one, I clubbed to death. But on that day I was_ utterly_ enraged. And most people credit me with twenty-four. Gods know where that figure came from, as I only ever counted eighteen!"

"Maybe the time is right to widen our approach and our selection criteria and tap the latent talent of an overlooked section of society." Mericet admitted.

"The other half of society, Humphrey!" Joan corrected him. "**_Women_**. We account for half the human race, after all!"

"Good-oh!" Joan said, satisfied. "And this other thing, Humphrey. Does the Guild really need to test pupils to death? I agree the Final Examination _should_ have an element of risk about it. It's dangerous. There has to be a risk of death. that concentrates the mind wonderfully. But we're their _teachers,_ Humphrey. We have a duty of _care_ to our pupils! I will happily shout at, speak very sternly to, even bully and beast, a student who is shirking and being idle or wilfully ignorant. That is what we are there for. But seeing all that teaching wasted and ending up in a dratted coffin at the end of seven years. Waste of my time. Waste of yours. Just a waste all round, Humphrey. I will teach at this school and do it gladly, but I will NOT be a party to un-necessary death! Even if the pupil is a waste of good oxygen and hard to love."

There was an uneasy silence. Mericet felt something was expected of him.

"If I hear you correctly." he said, slowly, as if turning over a novel idea and examining its merits was a difficult thing for him, "what you are advocating is that if a pupil is corrected by a near-miss or a fright, he - or _she_ - will live on to learn from that and avoid making the same error again."

"Damn right, Humphrey! It's_ hard_ for a corpse to learn by its mistakes!" she said, thumping the table.

He took a deep breath.

"It would be the case that you are right." he admitted. "I feel I owe it to you – and to the Guild – to at least delay my retirement. To at least give the new regime a try."

Mericet did not add that his infatuation with Joan was the other reason for his withdrawing his resignation. But she smiled anyway.

"Jolly good, Humphrey! Can I take it that you have seen sense? Good-oh. Look, if it's _unfamiliarity _with young gels, ask me for advice, will you? And don't be tempted to go easy on 'em if they can't take it and start blubbering. In my experience, all male teachers fall for _that_ one. Then they take advantage. Then they all blubber. You have to be hard on 'em. It's the only way. Now let's see the dessert menu, shall we?"

They paid enough of a tip on the way out to cover the cost of a tray of broken glasses. It was only right. _Noblesse Oblige_ dictated.

"And besides," Joan said, reflectivey, as they walked arm-in-arm down Pelicool Steps, past the pet shop and the florists' next door, "Exactly how long do you think a chemists' shop called Mericet's would survive for? You'd be as bored as anything. Commerce is not _you_, Humphrey!"

* * *

A day or two later, Mr Mericet asked for an interview with Lord Downey. He walked diffidently into the Master's office.

"May I have a word, my Lord?" he asked.

"What can I do for you, old chap?" Downey asked, radiating benevolence.

"Well... I was wondering if it was too late to retract my resignation, Master. I have been persuaded that there may be advantages to remaining and spending my declining years helping to establish the new system. That there is merit and worth and a renewed sense of challenge in the new approach."

Downey was considerate enough not to ask exactly _who_ had persuaded Mericet. Solid staffroom rumour had given him a shrewd inkling**(10)**, and he kept a diplomatically straight face. He reached into his in-tray and retrieved Mericet's letter.

"Of course, old chap. I haven't actioned it yet, in any case. Shall we rip it up, and have a sherry to celebrate?"

"That would be a very good idea, Master. I thank you!"

* * *

**(1) **Yes, I do have Father Jack Hackett from "Father Ted" in mind here. Imagine Father Jack being let loose on girl pupils, or his having a run-in with, say. Miss Alice Band... yes, exactly. The outgoing Chaplain and Mr Lamister, a haplessly neurovore teacher of the old school with much in common with the named Teachers' Guild leader Master Greetling, are named and described in _**The Assassins' Guild Yearbook.**_ (I have recently had access to a copy and read it for the first time. While relieved that I was pretty much on the money about Madame Duex-Epées and that there are teasing hints that I got it broadly right about Miss Smith-Rhodes, there's a lot of canonical stuff I will need to write in here and there...). Mr Lamister may have retrained as a priest, by the way. _**The Compleat Ankh-Morpork**_ names a Reverend N. Lamister who is every bit as hapless a priest as he was a teacher. And the butt of sadistic pranks by choirboys and altar servants.

**(2) **See **_Men At Arms_** by Terry Pratchett.

**(3) **This had subtly changed one day when, unaccountably and no doubt due to a bad batch of citrus fruit, the half-time oranges had provoked a serious and inexplicable attack of vomiting and purging. It had been noted that young Mericet had been seen loitering near the dressing rooms. But the then Guild Master had noted that, if the hearty sporting types were wise, they should reflect that slight, weedy, unsporting boys with starred A-grades in poisons and potions should be treated with a certain respect. Mericet had received a sherry and successfully avoided the almond slice, although he had suggested how the almond slice might be made more _interestingly. _

**(4) **Although her clients did indeed get to draw very near to Death for as long as it took to conclude the formalities.

**(5) **Although she had somehow aced the Emergency Drop in a manner she was grateful for, but blowed if she _ever_ was going to confess to _anyone_. This tale may yet be told.

**(6) **Girls had got through the Assassins' Guild training course before, by expedients such as a rolled up pair of socks down the britches and a lot of bluff and imposture. Guild protocol in those cases was to accept that if a girl managed to keep up the deception so well for up to seven years, she was a bloody good Assassin and should be allowed to graduate (provided, of course, she kept discreetly quiet about it). Mericet had once taught a pupil called Emanuel-Martin de Jeannedarc. He recognised "him" straight away when some years later he returned to the School, having narrowly failed to graduate first time around.

**(7) **See my short _**White Rabbit **_, in which Alice falls down a rabbit-hole and ends up in Wonderland. Soundtrack by Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane.

**(8) **See footnote **(6)** above. Also read _**The Graduation Class**_ for a lot of the backstory. This can be viewed as another sequel to it, this one following the Mericet-Joan shipping storyline.

**(9) **In fact, he'd spent most of the night enthusing about various poisons and poisoning techniques to the Seamstress who'd drawn him. Maybe it rubbed off: thirty years later, she became an Agony aunt, one of the Guild's hereditary enforcers.

**(10) **The suppressed giggles and forced poker expressions on the faces of the three other female staff members were clue enough. Johanna and Alice thought it was really sweet, and Emmanuelle considered it to be a huge joke.


	30. The Four of Swords

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**The Minor Arcana**_

_Gods know what I'm taking on here as there are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana, the familiar sequence of Ace-to-Ten, then Princess (Page or Jack) Prince (Knight), Queen and King. The parents of the familiar deck of playing cards, each family of court cards is slimmed down to King, Queen and Jack, and the only survivor of the Major Arcana is the Fool, who lives on as the Jester/Joker. _

_In no particular order, I shall tackle them as the Muse takes me – I can always re-order them afterwards - and I know it's going to be a long slog!_

_**The Four of Swords: **This card denotes a need for retreat, seclusion, to find a safe place among trusted people. It can be viewed as the Two of Swords doubled: several people are forced together by circumstances and a shared burden, or just something in common, perhaps something that sets them apart from their peers. At least they are among people who **know...**_

Mariella Smith-Rhodes looked up at the bedroom ceiling thoughtfully. A semi-expertly assembled model of the Kite, Ankh-Morpork's first and so far only spacecraft, hung by one length of string from the rafter as if in a permanent nose-dive. An iconograph of the fashion model Jools was pinned to one wall, near the bed. Nearby to it was a squad iconograph of the Nap Hill Cowpunchers foot-the-ball team, and a roughly assembled ladder showing the current standings of teams in the Ankh-Morpork First Division. Each team was on an tabbed index card and could be moved up and down the slotted ladder as fortunes permitted.**(1)**

A shelf of books carried approved Guild textbooks, most of which had been issued along with orders to get them wrapped in protective covers derived from wallpaper offcuts, thick brown parcel paper, or the new-fangled sticky-backed plasticated paper.**(2) **Mariella recognised the Concordat, Healstether's _Dangerous Flora of Überwald_, and Nutt's _Intermediate Game Theory, _as well as_ Wilson's Political and Physical Geography of the Disc. _

She sipped her lemonade thoughtfully. Being in a boy's bedroom was new to her. In the past few months, she had got used to the big draughty first-year dorm in Black Widow House, shared with twenty-seven other girls. She suspected it had been designed to be as cold and draughty as possible, and this had been torture to her Howondalandian upbringing. She could not remember ever having been this cold for this long... but Madame Two-Swords had understood the need. Mariella, and girls from Fourecks and Klatch, had been issued unofficial extra blankets. Her reasoning was that "these girls are from all year-round _warm_ countries. _Ma foi_, it is not fair to expose you to winter in this city all in one go. Besides, I have no intention of losing any of you to pleurisy, pneumonia and debilitating diseases of the cold. You are here to be _taught_, not tortured!"

Other girls in the dorm had griped at the perceived favouritism. Mariella winced. It was one of the reasons why she was here, in an upper bedroom on Spa Lane that had a faint reek of feet and old sock to it. She sensed a mother could only do so much with a teenage boy.

Martin Bellamy leaned back on his bed. He was a few years older than Mariella, and a native of Ankh-Morpork. Because of this he was a day pupil, who could return to his family home at the end of the School day.

"I'm glad we're all here." he said. "I believe we've all got something in common that we need to talk about."

Rupert Mericet, fourteen, long, thin and spare, grinned a quiet rueful grin.

"Yes. We do." he agreed. "I'm glad I'm not the only one!"

Timothy Bellamy, much the same age as Mariella, had been invited into his older brother's room on sufferance. Good natured and mousy blond, he grinned infectiously. He was also a day pupil at the Guild school. Maggie Band, thirteen and slightly more worldly-wise, from Scorpion House, completed the group. She was curled up on the other end of the bed, catwise, looking irritatingly much older and sophisticated than Mariella. Two years age difference is a lifetime when you are eleven.

Martin grinned.

"As your host tonight, may I call this first meeting of the _Related-To-Teachers-Society _to order and say we are now officially convened? Thank you."

"First point on the agenda: we need a snappier name." Rupert said, drily. "Something that makes a good acronym."

Rupert Mericet was both liked and respected for his sense of humour. Against expectation, he actually _had_ a sense of humour. Sometimes when he was provoked it could tip into mordant killing sarcasm – well, it ran in the family – but normally he was a cheerfully pleasant youth. He excelled in Morporkian language and literature, and assisted in editing the School newsletter, the _**Cloak and Dagger. **_He also very carefully and pointedly tried not to be _too _good at Alchemy and Poisoning.

"The army calls its kids in married quarters _Barracks-Rats._" Maggie Band offered. "We could be the_ Filigree Street Rats?"_

"Good. Like it." said Martin.

"The Guild Rats." mused Rupert. "Yes. It's got a ring to it. _Related to Academics, Teachers, and Staff."_

"_Relatives of Academics, Teachers, Staff." _suggested Maggie. "I wonder if we can get that past them as an authorised Guild School club?"

"The Rats!" said Martin. "Everyone in favour? Say "aye!"

"_Aye!"_

"I'll try and get a few lines in the next C&D." said Rupert. "The problem is, they're censoring it now, after those jokes about the Dark Council slipped past in the last issue. You know, Lord Downey having to look over his shoulder, to see what Mrs Mericet might be slipping in the tea."

Rupert shuddered. "And there's another turtle to be tied to. **(3) **Not only do they think I'm his long-lost son, they make out she's going to be my _stepmother. _Ugggh."

"But he is only a distant cousin of your father?" Mariella said, breaking her silence. "Why do people insist you are his son?"

"Because it makes a better story, that's why." Rupert sighed. Other students found the idea of a wider Mericet family to be bizarrely outlandish. The idea of the austere Mr Mericet having siblings was incredible. Surely, thought the pupils, having seen what sort of monster they'd produced, the Mericet parents would have chosen never to have another? And it was true Mericet was the only survivor of his line of the family – people sometimes speculated on this, but never for very long. Rupert Mericet was at best a second or third cousin. But it didn't stop them gossiping about a closer relationship.

Maggie Band scowled.

"What about me?" she said. "Everybody thinks I'm _related_ to her! I mean, we share the same family name, but that's about it. And we've all heard the rumours about miss Band, why she isn't married and doesn't have a boyfriend."

"I hev not." Mariella said. "Whet are the rumours?"

Maggie sighed.

"Look, kid, you're only eleven..." she said.

"Oh, I know!" Tim Bellamy said, brightly. "She's an e_mbankment,_ right? A _holder-back-of-water._.."

"And you're only twelve, too." Martin said, hastily.

"Yes, but I heard Mum talking to Dad one night..."

"Can it, Tim." Martin said. "_Now._"

Maggie smiled reassuringly at Mariella.

"Talk to your big sister. I would if I were you." she said, kindly.

"_Ja."_ Mariella said, doubtfully. She was acutely aware of her Howondalandian accent and how it must sound to these older, cooler, people. She remained surprised that she had been accepted into this group. But Tim had asked her if she'd like to come along, and Martin and Rupert had approved it.

"Thet is, _yes. B_ut she tells me little ebout whet is said in the steffroom. Sometimes I wonder if she is testing me. I know she is en old friend of Miss Ellice Bend. It makes it difficult when the other girls esk whet she hes said to me, es if they think my sister takes me into her confidences. But if I tell them things I believe Johanna would prefer kept between us, I em breaking her trust. Life becomes difficult."

"Tell me about it." Martin said. "Some of the other women teachers come here to see Mum. Sometimes our kitchen's like another staffroom! I think the ones who live in, like Auntie Emmie..._Madame Two-Swords..._ like to relax in a place that isn't the School. And she's best friends with Mrs Mericet."

"How does that work out?" Rupert asked. Tim giggled.

"You should have been here last Saturday night! Miss Smith-Rhodes came round to talk about the Animal Management Unit, but she brought a bottle of something called _wittblitts_ with her."

"_Wijtblits." _Mariella automatically corrected him. "_White lightning._ A treditional drink of our people. My father goes strange efter a few glesses. Mother takes the bottle from him efter a while, end she hides it."

"Mum and Miss Smith-Rhodes went _very _strange! Dad gave up when Mrs Mericet and Miss Lansbury turned up. He made us go to bed early and said anything we overheard was _not_ to be repeated at school. But I bet you could have heard them laughing from Water Street!"

_I wondered why Johanna was a little bit stroeppy on Sunday, _Mariella thought.

"My sister is Miss Smith-Rhodes to me ell week." Mariella said. "If I em in her clesses, there is no favouritism. I believe she is a little harder with me to communicate this to the other pupils. But they still believe I em favoured in some way. Then et the weekend, she is my official next-of-kin end guardian. Then she is Johanna to me. She signs me out on day leave, end we go out together end we do sister-things together. This I eppreciate. But other pupils see this end do not understend. Like the time Madame Emmanuelle was considerate enough to ensure pupils from hot countries got extra blenkets. Without them, this first winter would hev been much harsher. But she said to me, to be prepared for a little discord."

Mariella winced.

"Pemela Eorle made noise. She wes unpleasant. She demanded how a redneck peasant girl like me could get such a favour, if she wes not related to a teacher. She tried to take the extra blenkets from me. I became engry. There wes unpleasentness."

Maggie Band nodded.

"Yes. We all saw Pamela Eorle's face afterwards! You've got the family temper, alright!"

"_Ja._ Medame Emmanuelle dealt with the situation. Enother girl, Christina Omnius, tried to take the extra blenkets given to Rivka bin-Divorah. She looks like a quiet, shy, girl, but she is a Cenotine, from Kletch. I would not choose a fight with a Cenotine. Some people are fools end are _enti-Cenotic,_ is this the right word? Christina made fun of Rivka's religion end her special diet needs. A mistake, I think. But Medame called us to her office and spoke sternly. Efterwards, she edvised me not to bloody somebody's nose so obviously, end to direct my blows to places where they will not be seen. Johanna said es much the next weekend, end showed me where to hit somebody to bring them down _quickly._ End now Pemela is claiming that I was treated leniently, because of my relationship to a teacher."

"No-o." Rupert said, thoughtfully. "I'd say it's because Madame Two-Swords doesn't want all the bother and paperwork of formal discipline. That's why she deals with things privately. Besides, she was in the same graduation class as your sister. Miss Smith-Rhodes is your next of kin and it makes things easier if they talk together about the best way to handle you."

He paused, and added, kindly,

"Look, there have got to be _some_ benefits!"

There was a general consensus sigh. The biscuits and lemonade that Tim and Martin's mum had thoughtfully provided went into circulation again.

"I'm surprised your mother let us meet here." Maggie said. "I mean, not just in your house, but in your bedroom and things."

"Ah, Mum's okay." Martin said. "She thinks it's good for boarders and day pupils to make friends outside school hours. So boarders get to see there's real life outside the Guild. Besides, I bet she knows every word we've been speaking. Not that she's standing in the next room with a glass pressed against the ceiling, or anything."

"She doesn't _need_ to!" Tim Bellamy said, through a mouthful of sweet biscuits. "She's _mum_!"

"But we still have to call her Doctor Bellamy at school." Martin reminded him.

"I got it wrong once. Everybody _laughed_." Tim complained.

"Well, you won't get it wrong again, will you?" Martin said, callously. "Good lesson!"

* * *

In the kitchen, Doctor Davinia Bellamy paused in marking a stack of exercise books. Her husband Peter thoughtfully poured three more coffees.

"It's getting late." he said, non-comitally. He felt a little uneasy at the idea of Martin having a pretty girl of around his own age up in his bedroom with him. But there were three other students up there too, one being Martin's younger brother..._who invited that serious-looking red haired girl, _he remembered.

Davinia ignored this.

"Ruth, did you mark Tim's homework for me? Thanks. I'll just look it over and see how he's getting on..."

Ruth N'Kweze was a teaching assistant who was learning how to handle classes, specifically in botany, natural sciences and biology. She accepted her coffee with thanks, and said

"Nothing to worry about, Vinnie. Above-average, but not so much as to get an A. I graded him B+ and pointed out a few things he can improve on."

Even though Tim and Martin attended their mother's classes, Davinia thought it prudent to have somebody else mark their work. It countered any accusations of favouritism. She also had their end-of-term exam papers externally marked, for the same reason.

"What _are_ they doing up there?" Peter asked. "They're very quiet."

Davinia smiled. Motherhood had given her a lot of transferable skills useful in handling Guild school pupils.

"They're sounding off about being related to their teachers, of course! They've got to vent _somewhere_, Peter!"

"It must be hard for them." Ruth remarked. "I was always aware Canon Clement is my half-brother. Even when taking his Religious Education classes, I had to keep telling people that we're from quite a big family and he is so much older than me, and I doubted if he even remembered my name!"

"That's why they need the space." Davinia said. "It's good for the ones who board, too, to spend time with a family. Johanna needed reassuring that her sister wasn't getting homesick and she was settling in."

"And of course Emmanuelle suggested that it would be good if it becomes generally known that Margaret Band spent time with a good-looking male day pupil in his bedroom." Ruth said, with the ghost of a smile. "She thinks that sort of rumour should kill all the _insinuations_ other girls make about Margaret. That being called Band automatically means you aren't interested in boys."

Peter Bellamy winced. Ruth patted his hand.

"They don't need to know it's all rather sweet and innocent, do they?" she said, practically. "And _you_ can hint that you chased them out with a sweeping broom, Vinnie! Which keeps it decent, gives Martin a little reputation, and prevents people thinking you encourage improper contact. Everyone benefits!"

"Speaking of which." Davinia said. "Our three guests need to be back at the Guild in their dorms before lights-out. Emmie said she'll understand if Mariella's a little late for first-year curfew. But the other two are older. If I call a cab, can you escort, Ruth?"

"Of course." Ruth said. "And I thank you for your hospitality. I live in too, so it's nice to see normal family life once in a while!"

* * *

**(1) **Because some things are universal to the bedrooms of teenage boys _everywhere_ in the Multiverse.

**(2) **Because some things are universal to schools everywhere in the multiverse. The chore of wrapping your books in protective outer covers is one of those things imposed by your teachers as they hand the books out. Nobody quite knows why, as quite often the books are hopelessly graffiti'd, torn and dog-eared to begin with. The general idea is that it keeps the kids out of trouble and their hands busy, which is no bad thing.

**(3) **On Roundworld, we talk about _another cross to bear_. Omnianism gave the disc a parellel idiom.


	31. The Seven of Coins

_**The Discworld Tarot: **_

_**The Seven of Pentacles (or Coins. Or Discs.)**_

_**Diminishing Returns.**_

_The Sevens are about restrictions, setbacks, the unexpected, plans failing, want and lack of something vital fouling things up, or just generally running out of steam. _

_The Seven of Coins (Pentacles, Discs) operates in the sphere of money and materialism. It could denote a situation where you enter with high hopes, but entropy applies and you have to put more and more effort in to get less and less out. What looks like it might be a high-return low-cost strategy starts to incur more and more costs, so that you are lucky to come out even slightly ahead after much labour and in fact might end up in a loss situation. As a member of the Guild of Thieves, Cutpurses, Burglars, Housebreakers and Allied Trades is shortly going to find out. _

Steffi Gibbet hummed a cheerful tune as she carefully nailed the cheaply gilded badge to the householder's door frame. She stood back to admire her work and returned the small hammer to her toolbelt.

"Everything's in order now, Mr Carver," she said, happily. "With the Silver Plan, you are now free from any sort of Guild activity for twelve months and you even get an insurance policy against any incidence of unlicenced theft or burglary. The Guild will undertake to track down any burglar or unlicenced operator, retrieve your goods or compensate to the value of, and you even get to watch when we deal with the culprit according to Guild law!"

She shook hands with the householder and moved on down the street, noting houses that already had current Thieves' Guild protection. She frowned as she passed number twenty-one; that looked like a carefully forged Guild protection shield nailed to the doorpost. The gilding looked slightly off and the details seemed wrong. She noted it for a visit later, after checking Guild records to confirm her suspicion. Back-up from a couple of enforcers would be useful, too: she was currently working alone. While the Guild approved of fraud and deception in general terms – Moist von Lipwig was a lifetime honorary member in recognition of services to the profession – it took a hard line when people outside tried to defraud it.

She smiled and waved at a Watch patrol as she passed by twenty-three and twenty-five, which both had current insurance, then came to twenty-seven. She frowned, seeing no obvious sign that the premises had either Thieves or Assassins' Guild insurance policies. (1) Then she mentally rehearsed her script and knocked on the door.

That Time Of Year had come around again. Mr Boggis had called together a hundred Guild members, who had gathered in what had formerly been the City's principal law court, now the meeting hall of the Thieves Guild (and thus continuing a long association with crime and grand larceny). Everybody knew what was going to happen. There was a general air of resignation to a long unrewarding slog that was about to come. Steffi, a younger Thief in her early twenties, a fairly recent starred honours graduate of the Thieves' School and one who now worked for the Guild, teaching its young students about Edificeering and Combat Parkour, found a place to lounge decoratively against what had once been the witness box.

"It's perfectly straightforward." Boggis had assured them all. "You each get a beat of the City. You just check which households have got current Guild protection and which haven't. If they don't, you knock on the door and explain the benefits of buying a Guild protection plan. In a perfectly friendly and non-confrontational non-threatening way, of course. You are the public face of the Guild. Public relations, right? Raise awareness, show them we're a friendly public-spirited bunch of people, explain what might happen if they don't renew, _and get the revenue in. _If they're unco-operative or just plain nasty, just smile nicely, apologise for wasting their valuable time, and remember to take the address so we can send a follow-up team later. Nothing to it. You've all been selected because you've got the right..."

Boggis looked down at his notes.

"people skills. We can send the ones who _don't_ have people skills round to follow up later. Got your beats? Good. Now get out there and _raise revenue_!"

Steffi sighed resignedly. She reflected that the Assassins didn't need to go out doorstepping for trade. She wondered what form this would take – stab one, garrotte one free? Or you could buy our Silver Dagger plan, squire, immunity from inhuming for you and for one selected family member for a year...

And now she was here, noting the Watch patrol was paying close interest. She'd been warned about that. Vimes couldn't interfere directly as it was all within the law and accepted Guild practice. But he could make it a little more difficult, as far as he could. Besides, raising revenue had more than one meaning. The Guild of Thieves paid a high proportion of its take to Vetinari as part of the Agreement. Effectively making her part of the most effective tax-gathering operation Ankh-Morpork had ever known. And _nobody_ liked a visit from the taxman...

She took a breath, aware the watch patrol had clocked her and was watching from the other side of the road, and knocked on the door of Number Twenty-Seven.

"Oh, hello, dearie! You'll be the girl they've sent me from the Agency?"

"Well, I'm from the..."

"Come on in, dearie! Can't have you standing there!"

Steffi paused for a moment, then followed the trusting old lady into the house. She noticed the householder was moving slowly and hobbling a little; she seemed to be at least eighty years old. Steffi sighed. She'd always thought this was not what being a Thief should be about. She noted the general aura of old-lady neglect, but appreciated the house was more-or-less clean, if spartan.

"Could you start with my feet, love? They've been giving me real gyp lately." the old lady said, flopping herself down into a well-loved chair.

"Your... feet?" Steffi asked, nonplussed. She had various tools on her working belt. _Some_ of them could be applied to feet, she conceded, but only in self-defence or if she had to deal with any Unlicenced Thieves she encountered.

"New girl? New job?" the old lady asked. "Nothing to it, love. They'll have give you some training? The Agency?"

"Well, I'm actually from the Guild on a routine visit..."

"That's nice, dearie. Did they give you clippers for me toenails? Not to worry, the last home-help the Sisters sent me left a set behind, they're on the mantlepiece."

Steffi made a leap of realisation. She also realised why the old lady might be hobbling.

"There's water on the hob for washing, and clean-ish towels." the old lady said, hopefully. "When it's hot, you can fill the footbath, that's on a hook behind the kitchen door. What's your name, dearie?"

"Steffi... er, Stephanie."

"That's a nice name, dear. I'm Mrs Elbow. Olecrana Elbow." **(2)**

And twenty minutes later, Steffi Gibbet was kneeling on a folded towel to save her own knees against the rough floorboards, having filled a footbath, found towels and soap, and was, with deft gentleness, washing a pair of old-lady feet. It wasn't as dreadful as she'd feared, and having seen how the toenails had grown, her inconvenient conscience was telling her she couldn't refuse. She had also heard about the home-help service provided by the Spiteful Sisterhood of Seven-Handed Sek, an order of devout and charitable nuns who despite their name radiated compassion, love and care. Steffi assumed the name might have meant something else a few centuries before and meaning hadn't kept up with current intent.

She also wondered about how to broach the subject of Thieves' Guild protection. It looked like the old girl didn't have two farthings to rub together; the collection of knick-knacks accumulated over a lifetime might have things you could fence for a few dollars, but seemed to be of more sentimental worth. _Which would not worry some Thieves. _But the kitchen had been woefully short of foodstuffs: a bottle of elderly milk, some porridge oats, a crust of very old bread, and that was it.

There was a knock on the door, which opened directly onto the street.

"Door's open, dearie!" Mrs Elbow called, as Steffi began gingerly clipping iron-hard toenails. She glanced up; two Watchmen entered.

"Just seeing everything's alright, Mrs Elbow." one said. His look took in Steffi, kneeling with a foot in one hand and toenail clippers in the other. She glared up at Constable Ping, daring him to make any comment.

"Seeing as the girl from the Thieves' Guild came in here twenty-five minutes ago, and we ain't seen her leave yet." Constable Robins added, meaningfully.

"Thieves' Guild?" Mrs Elbow said, and cackled. "You're mistaken, love. This is Stephanie from the home-help agency, aren't you, love?"

Steffi nodded, grimly, and industriously tried to aim toenail shrapnel at the two Watchmen. They dodged as a particularly stubborn chip richocheted off the far wall.

"You two are looking after the old lady's welfare, right?" Steffi almost growled. She put down the clippers and rummaged in her pocket with a free hand.

"I'm telling you, she's got nothing in her kitchen. _Nothing. _So what _you_ can do, Ping, is get down the corner shop and see she's alright for basics."

Steffi forced two dollars at him. He looked at it doubtfully.

"Well, yes, but.. what do I get?" he asked, puzzled. "Mrs Ping deals with that sort of thing."

"Oh, good _grief_!"said Steffi. She lived alone in a single-girl bedsit. She'd been supporting herself since coming of age and leaving the Guild school.

"Bread. Milk. Eggs. Basic veg. Potatoes. Onions. Cabbage. Turnips. Wahoonies. Teabags. Things that keep. You know? _And _I want the change!"

She glared at the two Watchmen, who nervously backed out of the door. They were experienced street-Watch: they _knew_ that sort of look on the face of a professional woman with a short temper out on a mission. Just because it belonged to a boyishly attractive young woman with a pretty face and short-cut auburn hair did not make it any less meaningful.

Then Steffi got on with the task at hand, listening to the old lady's faraway chatter about Albert, been in Small Gods these last ten years now, godsresthissoul, and about children living elsewhere, as far away as Pseudopolis, and the minutae of the doings of grandchildren and great grandchildren she didn't get to see as often as she could, and you're a good girl, Stephanie, so very gentle, have you family of your own?

"No, mrs Elbow. I was a foundling. The Guild took me in. They're my family now."

In accordance with Guild practice, the baby left on the steps had been given a honoured trade name, in her case Gibbet (although she might have become a Ludd or a Boggis) and fostered with the other foundlings in the Guild orphanage.**(1)** As soon as she could toddle and sucessfully nick toys from the older kids, and break out of her crib three nights out of four, she'd been sent to the Thieves' Kindergarden, then the First School, then the Thieves' School proper to learn her trade.

"Such a shame." Olecrana Elbow said, shaking her head. "You never knew your family."

"The Guild became my family, Mrs Elbow." Steffi said, awkwardly. She was never completely at home with conversations like this.

As she was drying the old lady's feet and preparing to powder them and roll on support stockings, the two Watchmen returned with laden grocery bags. Ping looked awkward.

"Change." Steffi directed, extending a hand.

There was some. But the groceries had cost a dollar-thirty. Steffi sighed.

"Ping, you were _robbed_." she said. "Remind me to have a word with those Klatchistanis at the corner shop."

"Well, _you _should know..." said Constable Robbins. She glared him into silence.

"What if I make a lunch, Mrs Elbow?" she said, brightly. _I can't leave her hungry. I just can't. Besides, I can't leave without telling her the reason why I'm here..._

And nearly two hours later, having cooked a large stew for an old lady and two mumphing Watchmen, licenced thief Steffi Gibbet nailed the little silver badge to the doorframe that announced Mrs Olecrana Elbow was now under Thieves' Guild protection and immunity from robbery for one year. It was easiest this way. Although Steffi winced that her personal purse was now lighter by fifteen dollars. There was no way Mrs Elbow could have afforded this herself, and even the little sentimental knick-nacks and memories of a marriage would be vulnerable to a different sort of Thief.

Steffi sighed. She could make up the fifteen dollars with a dip or two in the Maul. _Look for rich people who were careless about their money and didn't have Guild protection. But that could mean a few hours of Malicious Lingering just to break even on today... still, better than robbing an old lady who was hardly worth five dollars._ Steffi had her ethics about Thiefcraft.

She said goodbye and moved on. Although she had a feeling she'd be back. You know, drop by. When I'm passing. Just to see if the old girl's OK...

* * *

**(1)** Both Guilds sold home insurance. The Thieves complained about demarcation issues and were threatening to put out policies against _theft of life_ just to get even.

**(2) **_Olecrana_ (an anatomical term) came up as the answer to a crossword clue. It seemed like such an appropriate Discworld name I had to use it.

**(3) **Steffi is a cameo character in _**Thief of Time**_, referenced as a fellow Guild foundling and inferentially as Lobsang Ludd's first girlfriend. Before he met, you know...


	32. the Ten of Wands

_**(Return to) The Discworld Tarot**_

_**The Minor Arcana**_

_Gods know what I'm taking on here as there are fifty-six cards in the Minor Arcana, the familiar sequence of Ace-to-Ten, then Princess (Page or Jack) Prince (Knight), Queen and King. The parents of the familiar deck of playing cards, each family of court cards is slimmed down to King, Queen and Jack, and the only survivor of the Major Arcana is the Fool, who lives on as the Jester. _

_In no particular order, I shall tackle them as the Muse takes me – I can always re-order them afterwards - and I know it's going to be a long slog!_

_**The Ten of Wands - "Oppression"**_

_Stress and breaking strains. A natural progression of energy through one to ten leads to a point where a lot of kinetic energy is stored up and is about to release itself. Has come up in readings about nuclear weapons and nuclear power-plant failures – a touch of Chernobyl in the night. _

_The **Beaufort Scale** measures wind strength and associated hazards on Roundworld._

**0**

**Less than 1**

_Calm_

Sea surface smooth and mirror-like

Calm, smoke rises vertically

**1**

**1-3**

_Light Air_

Scaly ripples, no foam crests

Smoke drift indicates wind direction, still wind vanes

**2**

**4-6**

_Light Breeze_

Small wavelets, crests glassy, no breaking

Wind felt on face, leaves rustle, vanes begin to move

**3**

**7-10**

_Gentle Breeze_

Large wavelets, crests begin to break, scattered whitecaps

Leaves and small twigs constantly moving, light flags extended

**4**

**11-16**

_Moderate Breeze_

Small waves 1-4 ft. becoming longer, numerous whitecaps

Dust, leaves, and loose paper lifted, small tree branches move

**5**

**17-21**

_Fresh Breeze_

Moderate waves 4-8 ft taking longer form, many whitecaps, some spray

Small trees in leaf begin to sway

**6**

**22-27**

_Strong Breeze_

Larger waves 8-13 ft, whitecaps common, more spray

Larger tree branches moving, whistling in wires

**7**

**28-33**

_Near Gale_

Sea heaps up, waves 13-19 ft, white foam streaks off breakers

Whole trees moving, resistance felt walking against wind

**8**

**34-40**

_Gale_

Moderately high (18-25 ft) waves of greater length, edges of crests begin to break into spindrift, foam blown in streaks

Twigs breaking off trees, generally impedes progress

**9**

**41-47**

_Strong Gale_

High waves (23-32 ft), sea begins to roll, dense streaks of foam, spray may reduce visibility

Slight structural damage occurs, slate blows off roofs

**10**

**48-55**

_Storm_

Very high waves (29-41 ft) with overhanging crests, sea white with densely blown foam, heavy rolling, lowered visibility

Seldom experienced on land, trees broken or uprooted, "considerable structural damage"

**11**

**56-63**

_Violent Storm_

Exceptionally high (37-52 ft) waves, foam patches cover sea, visibility more reduced

**12**

**64+**

_Hurricane_

Air filled with foam, waves over 45 ft, sea completely white with driving spray, visibility greatly reduced.

* * *

Quite coincidentally, research wizard Ponder Stibbons has devised a suspiciously similar scale for quantifying the degree of peril and danger present in any given magical situation in and around Unseen University. All it requires is a Subject.

**0**

**Thaumic energy low (KiloT)**

_Calm (Blessèd Boredom)_

No obvious signs of distress. The subject appears calm and relaxed. He goes about his routine as Assistant Librarian and Professor of Cruel and Egregious Geography quite happily.

Nothing more than usual background magic.

**1**

**kT**

_Light Disturbance (Canary in a Dwarf Mine)_

Subject manifests signs of unease and becomes skittish. Wizards around him are oblivious or confident, and wonder why.

The first stirrings of possibly inimical magic, often imperceptible to those around the subject.

**2**

**kT+**

_Light Breeze ("Oh no, I've been here before")_

The feeling of existential dread intensifies and the subject begins making gloomy comments to all around him that "This will not end well." and "Mark my words"

More sensitive Wizards may also feel the sense of dread and looming disturbance. (Most) Assassins in the vicinity will also make their excuses and leave.

**3**

**kT++**

_Gentle Breeze (The tuber-gathering imperative)_

As well as continued snarky pessimism, subject surreptitiously checks on potato availability. May visit kitchen, greengrocer or market stalls. Ensure he is observed. Need for potatoes represents a heartfelt desire for security, and to stock up on essential provisions if forced to run.

The calm before the magical storm; everything _appears_ normal but there is a noticeable tinge of tin in the air.

**4**

**Now measured inMega thaums (mT)**

_Moderate Breeze (The Thing With Many Legs.)_

Luggage awakes from hibernation, and finds its master, out of a primal need to serve and protect. Subject's legs and feet begin twitching, If asked, he will call this "warming up".

Watch for natural signs, such as rats, bedbugs, and cockroaches getting agitated and making preparations to evacuate the University.

**5**

**mT**

_Fresh Breeze_

Two Bledlows called to restrain Subject and block any exits. At this point the Subject will start muttering "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I'm about to die!" and variations on this theme. The Luggage will, of its own volition, seek out potatoes and load up.

Things may emerge from under the lawns. Mr Modo, the gardener, may be seen donning Dwarf armour and reaching for a mattock. Gargoyles will seek cover elsewhere.

**6**

**mT+**

_Strong Breeze_

The presence of more Bledlows, ideally younger and faster ones, becomes necessary. The Subject's legs will make involuntary running motions even when physically restrained and held off the ground.

Non-magical staff at the University will be affected by random discharges of stray magic. Be prepared to turn them back to human before Mrs Whitlow complains.

**7**

**Scale moves to GigaThaums (gT)**

_Near Gale_

Miss Butterfly from the Guild of Assassins called, and politely asked to assist in restraining Subject. She can usually restore a degree of calm and sanity, although this is down to her being immediately more dangerous and life-threatening than any putative danger elsewhere.

If the Arch-Chancellor is not aware, send a wizard, ideally somebody on a disciplinary, to alert him. Mrs Whitlow comes round to the HEM to complain.

**8**

**gT+**

_Gale (Watch Code Twenty-Three)_

Subject's nerve completely cracks and he begins running. The imperative to run is so strong that both Bledlows and Assassins cannot restrain him. The Luggage will follow. Remember to add thaumic tracker as well as potatoes.

Draw straws. The loser is to run to the Palace and alert the Patrician to a serious magical disturbance in progress. A second wizard may be delegated to break the bad news to Commander Vimes.

**9**

**gT++**

_Strong Gale (localised)_

Subject will run, but go to ground in Ankh-Morpork. This suggests a magical disturbance that may be safely contained. Look in University cellars, the Mended Drum, potato silos, et c. Follow thaumic tracker in Luggage.

Ravens leave the Tower of Art. The Tower itself may be seen twisting in more dimensions than the usual four. Books in Library become seriously agitated.

**10**

**Scale moves to TeraThaums (tT)**

_Storm (in space and Time)._

Subject actively seeking to leave the City and indeed the continent. Check docks, Hobson's Livery Stables, the Klatchian Carpetways flight terminal, Iron Girder, et c.

If mr Lu-Tze of the History Monks calls round, respect Rule One and be aware it's getting serious.

**11**

**tT+**

_Violent Storm (the fabric of Space and Time may be rent and need stitching)_

Subject still desperately running, but impeded by the emergence of an inconvenient Conscience which has all the force of a separate sentient being.

Structural damage occurs to all planes of Reality. Librarian and books from Library will seek secure shelter. History Monks take a deep interest.

**12**

_**Goes off-scale**_

_**Hurricane (Full-blown Sourceror)**_

Paradoxically, the subject realises there is no point in running any more. At this point his Conscience impels him to remove a sock and put a half-brick in it. There is no Level Thirteen.

The most serious form of magical disturbance. Complete disruption of all the planes of magic and reality. This precludes the possibility of a Level Thirteen.


End file.
